nifi 


t    liiii 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


/^y7/ 


/^.  cT'^  ^//^H^^^^ 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.archive.org/details/atlargenovelOOIiorniala 


Other  Books  by  Mr.  Hornung 


THE  AMATEUR  CRACKSMAN.    $1.25. 

RAFFLES.  More  Adventures  of  the 
Amateur  Cracksman.  Illustrated  by 
F,  C.  YoHN.    $1.50. 

PECCAVI.    a  Novel.     $t.so. 

THE  SHADOW  OF  A  MAN.    $1.25, 

DEAD  MEN  TELL  NO  TALES.  A 
Novel.    $1.25. 

SOME  PERSONS  UNKNOWN.    $1.25. 

YOUNG  BLOOD.    $1.95. 

MY  LORD  DUKE.    $1.25. 

THE  ROGUE'S  MARCH.  A  Romance. 
$1.50. 

THE  BOSS  OF  TAROOMBA.  [Ivory 
Series.]     i6mo.     $0.75. 

A  BRIDE  FROM  THE  BUSH.  [Ivory 
Series.]     i0mo.     $0.75. 

IRRALIE'S  BUSHRANGER.  A  Story 
OF  Austrauan  Adventure.  [Ivory 
Series.]     i6nio.     $0.75. 


AT    LARGE 


BHif .  or  cAur.  tnmA«T.  M»8  kWtuB 


AT  LARGE 

A    NOVEL 

BY 

E.   W.    HORNUNG 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW  YORK:::::::::::::::::i902 


Copyright,  igoi,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


All  rights  reserved 


Published  February,  1903 


Mow  omteToiiY 

MMraM  AMD  •OOKIINDINa  OOMMHV 
NfW  TOUK 


CONTENTS 


Page 

I. 

A  Nucleus  of  Fortune 

I 

II. 

Sundown    ...... 

II 

III. 

After  Four  Years          .... 

20 

IV. 

How  Dick  Came  Home 

z8 

V. 

The  First  Evening  at  Graysbrooke 

4» 

VI. 

Sisyphus     ...... 

53 

VII. 

South  Kensington          .... 

64 

VIII. 

The  Admirable  Miles  .... 

72 

IX. 

A  Dancing  Lesson  and  its  Consequences  . 

86 

X. 

An  Old  Friend  and  an  Old   Memory     . 

98 

XI. 

Dressing,   Dancing,   Looking  on 

.   109 

XII. 

**  To  -  Morrow,   and    To  -  Morrow,   and    To 

Morrow  "    . 

.   123 

XIII. 

In  Bushey   Park  ..... 

.    132 

XIV. 

Quits 

.    152 

XV. 

The  Morning  After      .... 

.    163 

XVI. 

Military  Manoeuvres      .... 

•   174 

XVII. 

«*Miles's  Beggars"      .... 

.   185 

XVIII. 

Alice  Speaks  for  Herself 

196 

Vll 


21^.0-187 


Contents 


Page 

XIX. 

Conterminous  Courses          ....   206 

XX. 

Strange  Humility 

Z16 

XXI. 

An  Altered  Man 

227 

XXII. 

Extremities 

234 

XXIII. 

The  Effect  of  a  Photograph 

244 

XXIV. 

The  Eifect  of  a  Song 

256 

XXV. 

Melmerbridge  Church 

271 

XXVI. 

At  Bay              ... 

286 

XXVII. 

The  Fatal  Tress 

296 

XXVIII. 

The  Effort 

307 

XXIX. 

Elizabeth  Ryan 

313 

XXX. 

Sweet  Revenge 

325 

XXXI. 

The  Charity  of  Silence 

333 

XXXII. 

Suspense :   Reaction     . 

343 

XXXIII. 

How  Dick  Said  Good-Bye 

353 

Vlll 


AT    LARGE 


At  Large 


A  NUCLEUS  OF  FORTUNE 

A  HOODED  wagon  was  creeping  across  a  depressing 
desert  in  the  middle  oi  Australia ;  layers  of  boxes  un- 
der the  hood,  and  of  brass-handled,  mahogany  drawers 
below  the  boxes,  revealed  the  Hcensed  hawker  of  the 
bush.  Now,  the  hawker  out  there  is  a  very  extensive 
development  of  his  prototype  here  at  home;  he  is 
Westbourne  Grove  on  wheels,  with  the  prices  of  Pic- 
cadilly, W.  But  these  particular  providers  were  nei- 
ther so  universal  nor  so  exorbitant  as  the  generality  of 
their  class.  There  were  but  two  of  them ;  they  drove 
but  two  horses ;  and  sat  shoulder  to  shoulder  on  the 
box. 

The  afternoon  was  late ;  all  day  the  horses  had  been 
crawling,  for  the  track  was  unusually  heavy.  There 
had  been  recent  rains ;  red  mud  clogged  the  wheels  at 
every  yard,  and  clung  to  them  in  sticky  tires.  Little 
pools  had  formed  all  over  the  plain ;  and  westward,  on 
the  off-side  of  the  wagon,  these  pools  caught  the  glow 
of  the  setting  sun,  and  filled  with  flame.  Far  over  the 
horses'  ears  a  long  low  line  of  trees  was  visible ;  other- 
wise the  plain  was  unbroken ;  you  might  ride  all  day 
on  these  plains  and  descry  no  other  horse  nor  man. 

I 


At  Large 


The  pair  upon  the  box  were  partners.  Their  names 
were  FHnt  and  Edmonstone.  Flint  was  enjoying  a 
senior  partner's  prerogative,  and  lolling  back  wreathed 
in  smoke.  His  thick  bare  arms  were  idly  folded.  He 
was  a  stout,  brown,  bearded  man,  who  at  thirty  looked 
many  years  older ;  indolence,  contentment,  and  good- 
will were  written  upon  his  face. 

The  junior  partner  was  driving,  and  taking  some 
pains  about  it — keeping  clear  of  the  deep  ruts,  and 
pushing  the  pace  only  where  the  track  was  good.  He 
looked  twenty  years  Flint's  junior,  and  was,  in  fact, 
just  of  age.  He  was  strongly  built  and  five-feet-ten, 
with  honest  gray  eyes,  fair  hair,  and  an  inelastic 
mouth. 

Both  of  these  men  wore  flannel  shirts,  buff  cord 
trousers,  gray  felt  wideawakes;  both  were  public- 
school  men,  drawn  together  in  the  first  instance  by 
that  mutually  surprising  fact,  and  for  the  rest  as  dif- 
ferent as  friends  could  be.  Flint  had  been  ten  years 
in  the  Colonies,  Edmonstone  not  quite  ten  weeks. 
FHnt  had  tried  everything,  and  failed;  Edmonstone 
had  everything  before  him,  and  did  not  mean  to  fail. 
Flint  was  experienced,  Edmonstone  sanguine ;  things 
surprised  Edmonstone,  nothing  surprised  Flint.  Ed- 
monstone had  dreams  of  the  future,  and  golden 
dreams;  Flint  troubled  only  about  the  present,  and 
that  very  little.  In  fine,  while  Edmonstone  saw  li- 
censed hawking  leading  them  both  by  a  short  cut  to 
fortune,  and  earnestly  intended  that  it  should,  FHnt 
said  they  would  be  lucky  if  their  second  trip  was  as 
successful  as  their  first,  now  all  but  come  to  an  end. 

The  shadow  of  horses  and  wagon  wavered  upon  the 
2 


A  Nucleus  of  Fortune 

undulating  plain  as  they  drove.  The  shadows  grew 
longer  and  longer;  there  was  a  noticeable  change  in 
them  whenever  young  Edmonstone  bent  forward  to 
gaze  at  the  sun  away  to  the  right,  and  then  across  at 
the  eastern  sky  already  tinged  with  purple;  and  that 
was  every  five  minutes. 

"  It  will  be  dark  in  less  than  an  hour,"  the  lad  ex- 
claimed at  last,  in  his  quick,  anxious  way ;  "  dark  just 
as  we  reach  the  scrub;  we  shall  have  no  moon  until 
eleven  or  so,  and  very  likely  not  strike  the  river  to- 
night." 

The  sentences  were  punctuated  with  sharp  cracks 
of  the  whip.  An  answer  came  from  Edmonstone's 
left,  in  the  mild  falsetto  that  contrasted  so  queerly  with 
the  bodily  bulk  of  Mr.  John  Flint,  and  startled  all  who 
heard  him  speak  for  the  first  time. 

"  My  good  fellow,  I  implore  you  again  to  spare  the 
horseflesh  and  the  whipcord — ^both  important  items — 
and  take  it  easy  like  me." 

"  Jack,"  replied  Edmonstone  warmly,  "  you  know 
well  enough  why  I  want  to  get  to  the  Murrumbidgee 
to-night.  No  ?  Well,  at  all  events,  you  own  that  we 
should  lose  no  time  about  getting  to  some  bank  or 
other?" 

"  Yes,  on  the  whole.  But  I  don't  see  the  good  of 
hurrying  on  now  to  reach  the  township  at  an  unearth- 
ly hour,  when  all  the  time  we  might  camp  in  comfort 
anywhere  here.  To  my  mind,  a  few  hours,  or  even  a 
night  or  two,  more  or  less " 

"  Are  neither  here  nor  there  ?  Exactly !  "  broke  in 
Edmonstone,  with  increasing  warmth.  "  Jack,  Jack ! 
the  days  those  very  words  cost  us !    Add  them  up — 

3 


At  Large 


subtract  them  from  the  time  we've  been  on  the  roads 
— and  we'd  have  been  back  a  week  ago  at  least.  I 
shall  have  no  peace  of  mind  until  I  step  out  of  the 
bank,  and  that's  the  truth  of  it."  As  he  spoke,  the 
fingers  of  Edmonstone's  right  hand  rested  for  a  mo- 
ment, with  a  curious,  involuntary  movement,  upon  his 
right  breast. 

"  I  can  see  that,"  returned  Flint,  serenely.  "  The 
burden  of  riches,  you  see — and  young  blood !  When 
you've  been  out  here  as  long  as  I  have,  you'll  take 
things  easier,  my  son." 

"  You  don't  understand  my  position,"  said  Edmon- 
stone.  "  You  laugh  when  I  tell  you  I  came  out  here 
to  make  money :  all  the  same,  I  mean  to  do  it.  I  own 
I  had  rotten  ideas  about  Australia — all  new  chums 
have.  But  if  I  can't  peg  out  my  claim  and  pick  up 
nuggets,  I'm  going  to  do  the  next  best  thing.  It  may 
be  hawking  and  it  may  not,  I  mean  to  see.  But  we 
must  give  the  thing  a  chance,  and  not  run  unneces- 
sary risks  with  the  gross  proceeds  of  our  very  first 
trip.  A  hundred  and  thirty  pounds  isn't  a  fortune; 
but  it  may  be  the  nucleus  of  one ;  and  it's  all  we've  got 
between  us  in  this  world  meanwhile." 

"  My  dear  old  boy,  I'm  fully  alive  to  it.  I  only 
don't  see  the  point  of  finishing  the  trip  at  a  gallop." 

"  The  point  is  that  our  little  all  is  concealed  about 
my  person,"  said  Edmonstone,  grimly. 

"  And  my  point  is  that  it  and  we  are  absolutely  safe. 
How  many  more  times  am  I  to  tell  you  so  ?  "  And 
there  was  a  squeak  of  impatience  in  the-  absurd  fal- 
setto voice,  followed  by  clouds  of  smoke  from  the 
bearded  lips. 


A  Nucleus  of  Fortune 

Edmonstone  drove  some  distance  without  a  word. 

"  Yet  only  last  week,"  he  remarked  at  length,  "  a 
store  was  stuck  up  on  the  Darling ! " 

"What  of  that?" 

"  The  storekeeper  was  robbed  of  every  cent  he 
had." 

"  I  know." 

"  Yet  they  shot  him  dead  in  the  end." 

"  And  they'll  swing  for  it." 

"  Meanwhile  they've  shown  clean  heels,  and  nobody 
knows  where  they  are — or  are  not." 

"  Consequently  you  expect  to  find  them  waiting  for 
us  in  the  next  clump,  eh  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.  I  only  deny  that  we  are  absolutely 
safe." 

Flint  knocked  out  his  pipe  with  sudden  energy. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  cried  he,  "  have  I  or  have  I  not 
been  as  many  years  out  here  as  you've  been  weeks? 
I. tell  you  I  was  in  the  mounted  police,  down  in  Vic, 
all  through  the  Kelly  business ;  joined  in  the  hunt  my- 
self ;  and  back  myself  to  know  a  real  bushranger  when 
I  see  him  or  read  about  him.  This  fellow  who  has 
the  cheek  to  call  himself  Sundown  is  not  a  bushranger 
at  all;  he  and  his  mates  are  mere  robbers  and  mur- 
derers. Ned  Kelly  didn't  go  shooting  miserable  store- 
keepers ;  and  he  was  the  last  of  the  bushrangers,  and 
is  likely  to  remain  the  last.  Besides,  these  chaps  will 
streak  up-country,  not  down ;  but,  if  it's  any  comfort 
to  you,  see  here,"  and  Flint  pocketed  his  pipe,  made 
a  long  arm  overhead  and  reached  a  Colt's  revolver 
from  a  hook  just  inside  the  hood  of  the  wagon,  "  let 
this  little  plaything  reassure  you.    What,  didn't  you 

5 


At  Large 


know  I  was  a  dead  shot  with  this  ?  My  dear  chap,  I 
wasn't  in  the  mounted  police  for  nothing.  Why,  I 
could  pick  out  your  front  teeth  at  thirty  yards  and 
paint  my  name  on  your  waistcoat  at  twenty ! " 

Flint  stroked  the  glittering  barrel  caressingly,  and 
restored  the  pistol  to  its  hook :  there  was  a  cartridge 
in  every  chamber. 

The  other  said  nothing  for  a  time,  but  was  more  in 
earnest  than  ever  when  he  did  speak. 

"  Jack,"  said  he,  "  I  can  only  tell  you  this :  if  we 
were  to  lose  our  money  straight  away  at  the  outset  I 
should  be  a  lost  man.  How  could  we  go  on  without 
it — hawking  with  an  empty  wagon?  How  could  I 
push,  push,  push — as  I've  got  to — after  losing  all  to 
start  with  ?  A  hundred  pounds !  It  isn't  much,  but  it 
is  everything  to  me — everything.  Let  me  only  keep 
it  a  bit  and  it  shall  grow  under  my  eyes.  Take  it  away 
from  me  and  I  am  done  for — completely  done  for." 

He  forgot  that  he  was  using  the  first  person  singu- 
lar instead  of  plural;  it  had  become  natural  to  him 
to  think  out  the  business  and  its  possibilities  in  this 
way,  and  it  was  no  less  in  Flint's  nature  to  see  no 
selfishness  in  his  friend's  speech.  Flint  only  said 
solemnly : 

"You  shouldn't  think  so  much  about  money,  old 
chap." 

"  Money  and  home  I "  exclaimed  Dick  Edmon- 
stone  in  a  low,  excited  tone.  "  Home  and  money ! 
It's  almost  all  I  do  think  about." 

Jack  Flint  leaned  forward,  and  narrowly  scanned 
the  face  of  his  friend;  then  lay  back  again,  with  a 
light  laugh  of  forced  cheerfulness. 

6 


A  Nucleus  of  Fortune 

"  Why,  Dick,  you  speak  as  though  you  had  been 
exiled  for  years,  and  it's  not  three  months  since  you 
landed." 

Dick  started.     It  already  seemed  years  to  him. 

"  Besides,"  continued  the  elder  man,  "  I  protest 
against  any  man  growing  morbid  who  can  show  a 
balance-sheet  like  ours.  As  to  home-sickness,  wait 
until  you  have  been  out  here  ten  years ;  wait  until  you 
have  tried  digging,  selecting,  farming,  droving;  wait 
until  you  have  worn  a  trooper's  uniform  and  a  coun- 
ter jumper's  apron,  and  ridden  the  boundaries  at  a 
pound  a  week,  and  tutored  Young  Australia  for  your 
rations.  When  you  have  tried  all  these  things — and 
done  no  good  at  any  of  'em,  mark  you — ^then,  if  you 
like,  turn  home-sick.'* 

The  other  did  not  answer.  Leaning  forward,  he 
whipped  up  the  horses,  and  gazed  once  more  towards 
the  setting  sun.  His  companion  could  not  see  his 
face ;  but  trouble  and  anxiety  were  in  that  long,  steady, 
westward  gaze.  He  was  very  young,  this  lad  Ed- 
monstone — young  even  for  his  years.  Unlike  his 
mate,  his  thoughts  were  all  of  the  past  and  of  the 
future ;  both  presented  happy  pictures ;  so  happy  that 
his  mind  would  fly  from  the  one  to  the  other  without 
touching  the  present.  And  so  he  thought  now,  gaz- 
ing westward,  of  home,  and  of  something  sweeter  than 
home  itself;  and  he  blended  that  which  had  gone  be- 
fore with  that  which  was  yet  to  come;  and  so  won- 
derful was  the  harmony  between  these  two  that  to-day 
was  entirely  forgotten.  Then  the  sun  swung  half-way 
below  the  dark  line  of  the  horizon ;  a  golden  pathway 
shone  across  the  sandy  track  right  to  the  wheels  of 

7 


At  Large 


the  wagon ;  the  dark  line  of  scrub,  now  close  at  hand, 
looked  shadowy  and  mysterious;  the  sunset  colours 
declared  themselves  finally  in  orange  and  pink  and 
gray,  before  the  spreading  purple  caught  and  swal- 
lowed them.  The  dreamer's  face  grew  indistinct,  but 
his  golden  dreams  were  more  vivid  than  before. 

A  deadly  stillness  enveloped  the  plain,  making  all 
sounds  staccato :  the  rhythmical  footfall  of  the  horses, 
the  hoarse  notes  of  crows  wheeling  through  the  twi- 
light like  uncanny  heralds  of  night,  the  croaking  of 
crickets  in  the  scrub  ahead. 

Dick  was  recalled  to  the  antipodes  by  a  mild  query 
from  his  mate. 

"  Are  you  asleep,  driver  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  haven't  noticed  any  one  ahead  of  us  this  af- 
ternoon on  horseback  ?  " 

"No;  why?" 

"  Because  here  are  some  one's  tracks,"  said  Flint, 
pointing  to  a  fresh  horse-trail  on  the  side  of  the  road." 

Edmonstone  stretched  across  to  look.  It  was  diffi- 
cult in  the  dusk  to  distinguish  the  trail,  which  was 
the  simple  one  of  a  horse  walking. 

"  I  saw  no  one,"  he  said ;  "  but  during  the  last  hour 
it  would  have  been  impossible  to  see  any  one,  as  close 
to  the  scrub  as  we  are  now.  Whoever  it  is,  he  must 
have  struck  the  track  hereabouts  somewhere,  or  we 
should  have  seen  his  trail  before  sundown." 

"  Whoever  it  is,"  said  Flint,  "  we  shall  see  him  in  a 
minute.     Don't  you  hear  him  ?     He  is  still  at  a  walk." 

Edmonstone  listened,  and  the  measured  beat  of 
hoofs  grew  upon  his  ear ;  another  moment  and  a  horse- 

8 


A  Nucleus  of  Fortune 

man's  back  was  looming  through  the  dusk — very- 
broad  and  round,  with  only  the  crown  of  a  wideawake 
showing  above  the  shoulders.  As  the  wagon  drew 
abreast  his  horse  was  wheeled  to  one  side,  and  a 
hearty  voice  hailed  the  hawkers : 

"  Got  a  match,  mateys?  I've  used  my  last,  and  I'm 
just  weakening  for  a  smoke." 

"  Here's  my  box,"  said  Dick,  pulling  up.  "  Take 
as  many  as  you  Hke." 

And  he  dropped  his  match-box  into  a  great  fat  hand 
with  a  wrist  like  a  ship's  cable,  and  strong  stumpy 
fingers :  it  was  not  returned  until  a  loaded  pipe  was 
satisfactorily  alight ;  and  as  the  tobacco  glowed  in  the 
bowl  the  man's  face  glowed  in  company.  It  was  huge 
like  himself,  and  bearded  to  the  eyes,  which  were  sin- 
gularly small  and  bright,  and  set  very  close  together, 

"  I  don't  like  that  face,"  said  Dick  when  the  fellow 
had  thanked  him  with  redoubled  heartiness,  and  rid- 
den on. 

"  It  looked  good-natured." 

"  It  was  and  it  wasn't.  I  don't  want  to  see  it  again ; 
but  I  shall  know  it  if  ever  I  do.  I  had  as  good  a  look 
at  him  as  he  had  at  us." 

Flint  made  no  reply ;  they  entered  the  forest  of  low- 
sized  malee  and  pine  in  silence. 

"  Jack,"  gasped  Edmonstone,  very  suddenly,  after 
half-an-hour,  "  there's  some  one  galloping  in  the  scrub 
somewhere — can't  you  hear  ?  " 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Flint,  waking  from  a  doze. 

"  Some  one's  galloping  in  the  scrub — can't  you  hear 
the  branches  breaking?     Listen." 

"  I  hear  nothing," 

9 


At  Large 


"  Listen  again." 

Flint  listened  intently. 

"  Yes — no.  I  thought  for  an  instant — but  no,  there 
is  no  sound  now." 

He  was  right :  there  was  no  sound  then,  and  he  was 
somewhat  ruffled. 

"  What  are  you  giving  us,  Dick  ?  If  you  will  push 
on,  why,  let's  do  it ;  only  we  do  one  thing  or  the  other." 

Dick  whipped  up  the  horses  without  a  word.  For 
five  minutes  they  trotted  on  gamely;  then,  without 
warning,  they  leaped  to  one  side  with  a  shy  that  half- 
overturned  the  wagon. 

Side  by  side,  and  motionless  in  the  starlight,  sat  two 
shadowy  forms  on  horseback,  armed  with  rifles,  and 
masked  to  the  chin. 

"  Hands  up,"  cried  one  of  them,  "  or  we  plug." 


lO 


II 

SUNDOWN 

There  was  no  time  for  thought,  much  less  for 
action,  beyond  that  taken  promptly  by  Flint,  who  shot 
his  own  hands  above  his  head  without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  and  whispered  to  Dick  to  do  the  same. 
Any  other  movement  would  have  been  tantamount  to 
suicide.  Yet  it  was  with  his  eyes  open  and  his  head 
cool  that  Flint  gave  the  sig^  of  submission. 

The  horsemen  sat  dark  and  motionless  as  the  trees 
of  the  sleeping  forest  around  them.  They  were  con- 
templating the  completeness  of  their  triumph,  grin- 
ning behind  their  masks. 

Flint  saw  his  chance.  Slowly,  very  slowly,  his  left 
arm,  reared  rigidly  above  his  head,  swayed  backward ; 
his  body  moved  gently  with  his  arm ;  his  eyes  never 
left  the  two  mysterious  mounted  men. 

He  felt  his  middle  finger  crowned  by  a  cool  ring. 
It  was  the  muzzle  of  his  precious  Colt.  One  grasp, 
and  at  least  he  would  be  armed. 

He  turned  his  wrist  for  the  snatch,  gazing  steadily 
all  the  while  at  the  two  vague  shadows  of  men.  An- 
other second — and  a  barrel  winked  in  the  starlight,  to 
gleam  steadily  as  it  covered  Flint's  broad  chest.  He 
who  had  called  upon  them  to  throw  up  their  hands 

II 


At  Large 


spoke  again ;  his  voice  seemed  to  come  from  the  muz- 
zle of  the  levelled  rifle. 

"  Stretch  an  inch  more,  you  on  the  near-side,  and 
you're  the  last  dead  man." 

Flint  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  game  was  lost. 
There  was  no  more  need  to  lose  his  head  than  if  the 
game  had  been  won.  There  was  no  need  at  all  to  lose 
his  life. 

"  I  give  you  best,"  said  he,  without  the  least  emotion 
in  his  extraordinary  voice. 

"  Fold  your  arms  and  come  down,"  said  the  man 
with  the  rifle,  his  finger  on  the  trigger. 

Flint  did  as  he  was  ordered. 

"  The  same — ^you  with  the  reins." 

Edmonstone's  only  answer  was  a  stupefied  stare. 

"  Jump  down,  my  friend,  unless  you  want  helping 
with  this." 

Dick  obeyed  apathetically ;  he  was  literally  dazed. 
At  a  sign  from  the  man  with  the  rifle  he  took  his  stand 
beside  Flint ;  three  paces  in  front  of  the  luckless  pair 
shone  the  short  barrel  of  the  Winchester  repeater. 
The  other  robber  had  dismounted,  and  was  standing 
at  the  horses'  heads. 

In  this  position,  a  moment's  silence  fell  upon  the 
four  men,  to  be  broken  by  the  coarse,  grating  laughter 
of  a  fifth.  Edmonstone  turned  his  head,  saw  another 
horseman  issuing  from  the  trees,  and  at  once  recog- 
nised the  burly  figure  of  the  traveller  who  had  bor- 
rowed his  match-box  less  than  an  hour  before.  At 
that  moment,  and  not  until  then,  Dick  Edmonstone 
realised  the  situation.  It  was  desperate ;  all  was  lost ! 
The  lad's  brain  spun  like  a  top :  reason  fled  from  it ; 

12 


Sundown 

his  hand  clutched  nervously  at  the  pocket  where  the 
money  was,  and  he  swore  in  his  heart  that  if  that  went, 
his  life  might  go  with  it. 

In  another  instant  the  hairy  ruffian  had  ridden  his 
horse  close  up  to  Edmonstone,  whipped  his  foot  from 
the  stirrup,  and  kicked  the  youngster  playfully  in  the 
chest — on  that  very  spot  which  his  thoughtless  gesture 
had  betrayed. 

At  this  the  other  bushrangers  set  up  a  laugh — a 
short  one. 

With  a  spring  like  a  young  leopard,  Dick  Edmon- 
stone had  the  big  horseman  by  the  beard,  and  down 
they  came  to  the  ground  together.  There,  in  the  sand, 
they  rolled  over  each  other,  locked  in  mortal  combat — 
writhing,  leaping,  twisting,  shifting — so  that  the  leader 
of  the  band,  though  he  pointed  his  rifle  at  the  strug- 
gling men,  dared  not  fire,  for  fear  of  hitting  the  wrong 
one.  But  there  came  a  moment  when  the  struggling 
ceased,  when  Flint  sprang  forward  with  a  hoarse  cry 
on  his  lips  and  Sundown  took  careless  aim  with  the 
Winchester. 

Dick  Edmonstone  was  lying  on  his  back  with  white, 
upturned  face.  Two  crushing  weights  pinned  down 
each  arm  below  the  shoulder ;  his  adversary  was  kneel- 
ing on  him  with  grinding  teeth  and  a  frightful  face, 
and  one  hand  busy  at  his  belt.  His  hand  flew  up  with 
a  gleam.  It  was  at  that  moment  that  the  man  with 
the  rifle  raised  it  and  fired. 

The  bearded  ruffian  shook  his  hand  as  though  hit, 
and  the  haft  of  a  knife  slipped  from  it ;  the  bullet  had 
carried  away  the  blade.  With  a  curse  he  felt  for  his 
revolver. 

13 


At  Large 


"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Jem  Pound,"  said  the  marksman 
quietly,  lowering  his  smoking  piece.  "  Before  you 
bring  the  lot  of  us  to  the  gallows,  I'll  put  a  bullet 
through  your  own  fat  head.  Get  up,  you  big  fool! 
Cut  the  mokes  adrift,  and  turn  everything  out  of  the 
wagon." 

The  man  Pound  rose  sulkily,  with  a  curious  last  look 
at  the  young  Englishman's  throat,  and  hell-fire  in  his 
little  eyes. 

"  Ben,  watch  this  cove,"  the  chief  went  on,  point- 
ing to  Flint,  "  and  watch  him  with  the  shooter. 
I'll  see  to  the  youngster  myself.  Come  here,  my 
friend." 

The  speaker  was  plainly  no  other  than  the  rascal 
who  called  himself  Sundown;  the  hawkers  heard  the 
sobriquet  on  the  lips  of  the  other  masked  man,  and 
their  glances  met.  He  was  wrapped  in  a  cloak  that 
hid  him  from  head  to  heels,  stooped  as  he  walked,  and 
was  amply  masked.  What  struck  Flint — who  was 
sufficiently  cool  to  remain  an  attentive  observer — was 
the  absence  of  vulgar  bluster  about  this  fellow;  he 
addressed  confederates  and  captives  alike  in  the  same 
quiet,  decisive  tones,  without  either  raising  his  voice 
to  a  shout  or  filling  the  air  with  oaths.  It  appeared 
that  Ned  Kelly  had  not  been  the  last  of  the  real 
bushrangers,  after  all. 

"  You  come  along  with  me,"  said  he,  quietly ;  and 
drew  Dick  aside,  pointing  at  him  the  rifle,  which  he 
grasped  across  the  breech,  with  a  finger  still  upon  the 
trigger. 

"  Now,"  continued  Sundown,  when  they  had  with- 
drawn a  few  yards  into  the  scrub,  "  turn  out  that 


Sundown 

pocket."  He  tapped  Edmonstone  on  the  chest  with 
the  muzzle  of  the  rifle. 

Dick  folded  his  arms  and  took  a  short  step  back- 
ward. 

"  Shoot  me !  "  he  exclaimed,  looking  the  robber  full 
in  the  face.  "  Why  did  you  save  me  a  minute  ago  ? 
I  prefer  to  die.     Shoot  me,  and  have  done  with  it." 

"  Open  your  coat,"  said  the  bushranger. 

Edmonstone  tore  open  not  only  his  coat,  but  his 
shirt  as  well,  thus  baring  his  chest. 

"  There.     Shoot !  "  he  repeated  hoarsely. 

Sundown  stared  at  the  boy  with  a  moment's  curi- 
osity, but  paid  no  heed  to  his  words. 

"  Empty  that  pocket." 

Dick  took  out  the  pocket-book  that  contained  all 
the  funds  of  the  firm. 

"  Open  it." 

Dick  obeyed. 

"How  much  is  in  it?" 

"  A  hundred  and  thirty  pounds." 

"Good!     Cheques!" 

"  More  notes." 

The  robber  laughed  consumedly. 

"  Take  them,  if  you  are  going  to,"  said  Dick,  draw- 
ing a  deep  breath. 

Sundown  did  take  them — pocket-book  and  all — still 
covering  his  man  with  the  rifle.  The  moon  was  ris- 
ing. In  the  pale  light  the  young  fellow's  face  was 
ghastly  to  look  upon ;  it  had  the  damp  pallor  of  death 
itself.  The  bushranger  eyed  it  closely,  and  half- 
dropped  the  bushranger's  manner. 

"  New  chum,  I  take  it !  " 

15 


At  Large 


"  What  of  that  ?  "  returned  Dick  bitterly. 

"  And  not  long  set  up  shop  ?  " 

Dick  made  no  answer.  Sundown  stepped  forward 
and  gripped  his  shoulder. 

"  Say,  mate,  is  this  hundred  and  odd  quid  so  very 
much  to  you  ?  " 

Still  no  answer. 

"  On  oath,  now :  is  it  so  very  much  ?  " 

Dick  looked  up  wildly. 

"  Much  ?  It  is  everything.  You  have  robbed  me  of 
all  I  have !  You  have  saved  my  life  when  I'd  as  soon 
lose  it  with  my  money.  Yes,  it's  all  I  have  in  the 
world,  since  you  want  to  know!  Do  you  want  to 
madden  me,  you  cur?  Shoot  me — shoot,  I  tell  you. 
If  you  don't  I'll  make  you!  "  And  the  young  mad- 
man clenched  his  fist  as  he  spoke. 

That  instant  he  felt  himself  seized  by  the  neck  and 
pushed  forward,  with  a  ring  of  cold  steel  pressing  be- 
low his  ear, 

"  Here  you — Jem  Pound — have  your  revenge  and 
bind  this  cub.  Bind  tight,  but  fair,  for  I'm  watching 
you." 

In  five  minutes  the  blood  would  scarcely  circulate 
in  a  dozen  different  parts  of  Edmonstone's  body;  he 
was  bound  as  tightly  as  vindictive  villain  could  bind 
him,  to  the  ofif  hind-wheel  of  his  own  wagon.  Sun- 
down stood  by  with  the  rifle,  and  saw  it  done. 

Flint  had  already  been  bound  to  the  near  hind- 
wheel,  so  that  the  partners  were  lashed  back  to  back — 
both  able  to  watch  their  property  looted  at  the  rear  of 
the  wagon,  but  unable  to  exchange  glances. 

Sundown  strolled  about  during  the  operation,  which 
i6 


Sundown 

his  subordinates  conducted  with  deepening  disgust, 
till  he  returned  and  asked  what  they  had  got. 

"  Precious  little,"  was  the  answer,  "  Stock  sold  out 
— boxes  mostly  empty." 

Nevertheless  some  few  varieties  of  bush  merchan- 
dise strewed  the  ground,  and  hats,  boots,  and  pipes 
were  quickly  selected  by  Jem  Pound  and  the  man  ad- 
dressed as  Ben;  though  as  for  Sundown,  he  seemed 
content  with  a  supply  of  smoking  materials,  and,  in- 
deed, to  be  more  or  less  preoccupied  while  the  plunder 
went  forward.  At  length,  at  a  word  from  him,  the 
other  men  mounted  their  horses,  while  their  leader 
walked  round  to  where  Flint  was  spread-eagled 
against  the  wheel. 

"  Is  there  anything  you  want  before  we  go?"  the 
bushranger  inquired,  as  civilly  as  you  please. 

"  Yes,"  said  Flint ;  "  I  want  you  to  fill  my  pipe,  stick 
it  in  my  mouth,  and  put  a  match  to  it,  if  you  will  be  so 
good." 

The  other  laughed,  but  complied  with  the  full  re- 
quest before  turning  his  attention  to  young  Edmon- 
stone. 

"  As  for  you,"  he  said,  "  here's  your  pocket-book. 
I  couldn't  take  such  a  treasure  from  you.  Better  keep 
it  in  memory  of  the  fortune  (the  immense  fortune  of  a 
hundred  and  thirty  pounds)  it  once  contained.  Not 
that  I  have  quite  emptied  it,  though ;  I  may  be  a  devil, 
but  I  never  clean  a  man  out  quite;  so  you'll  find 
enough  left  to  get  you  a  night's  lodging  and  some 
tucker.  And — and  don't  forget  old  Sundown  alto- 
gether; you  may  be  able  to  put  in  a  good  word  for 
him  some  day !  " 


At  Large 


These  last  words,  though  spoken  after  a  pause,  were 
thrown  off  lightly  enough;  yet  somehow  they  were 
unlike  the  rest  that  had  gone  before.  Before  their 
sound  had  died  away  Sundown  was  in  his  saddle,  and 
the  sound  of  horses  galloping  through  the  scrub  was 
growing  faint  and  far  away. 

Flint  was  the  first  to  free  himself.  It  took  him 
hours.  His  teeth  ached,  his  fingers  bled,  before  the 
last  knot  that  bound  his  hands  was  undone.  His  knife 
quickly  did  the  rest. 

He  went  straight  to  Edmonstone,  who  had  not 
spoken  since  the  gang  decamped.  Flint  found  him 
pale  and  cold,  with  a  very  hard  expression  upon  his 
face.  Dick  allowed  himself  to  be  set  free  without  a 
word — without  so  much  as  an  intelligent  glance. 

The  horses  could  be  heard  munching  bits  of  bushes 
close  at  hand.  They  were  easily  caught.  Nor  was 
it  a  difficult  task  to  a  ready-handed  fellow  like  Flint 
to  splice  the  traces,  which  the  bushrangers  had  cut. 

The  crestfallen  partners  were  on  the  point  of  re- 
entering the  wagon,  when  Flint  saw  the  pocket-book 
lying  where  it  had  been  dropped. 

"  Better  take  it,"  said  Flint  sorrowfully. 

In  utter  apathy  Dick  picked  it  up. 

"Wouldn't  you  see  if  they've  cleaned  it  entirely?" 
suggested  Flint. 

With  listless  fingers  Edmonstone  withdrew  the  elas- 
tic and  opened  the  pocket-book. 

By  this  time  the  moon  had  mounted  high  in  the 
clear  southern  sky ;  by  her  pure  white  rays  they  might 
have  read  small  print.  Flint's  heart  smote  him;  it 
was  by  his  doing  they  had  carried  so  many  notes, 

i8 


Sundown 

through  a  fad  of  his  about  opening  their  banking  ac- 
count with  hard  cash;  at  cheques  the  bushrangers 
might  easily  have  turned  up  their  noses,  as  bush- 
rangers had  done  before.  But  now,  as  it  was — poor, 
poor  young  devil ! 

A  cry  broke  the  silence,  and  rang  out  loud  and  wild 
upon  the  still  night  air.  It  came  from  Flint's  side. 
He  turned  to  find  his  companion  tottering  and  trem- 
bling. 

Dick  Edmonstone  had  dropped  the  pocket-book, 
and  was  nervously  counting  a  roll  of  crisp,  crackling 
papers. 

"  They  are  all  here ! — all !  all !  "  he  whispered  in  a 
strange,  broken  voice. 

"  Never ! " 

"  Yes,  all — all !  Only  think  of  it ;  our  fortune  is  not 
lost,  after  all — it's  made — the  key  to  it  is  in  my  hand 
again !  Jack,  the  fellow  had  pity  on  me.  No,  I  mean 
on  us.  I  don't  mean  to  be  selfish.  Jack ;  it's  share  and 
share  alike,  between  you  and  me,  and  always  will  be. 
But  if  you  knew — if  you  knew !  Jack,  I'll  put  in  that 
good  word  for  him — I'll  make  it  more  than  words,  if 
ever  I  get  the  chance !  For  I  do  owe  him  something," 
said  the  poor  fellow,  carried  away  by  reaction  and  ex- 
citement, so  that  his  breaking  voice  trembled  between 
sobs  and  laughter.  "  I  do  owe  that  Sundown  some- 
thing.    God  bless  him — that's  all  /  say." 

But  Flint  said  nothing  at  all;  he  was  much  too 
amazed  for  words. 


19 


Ill 

AFTER   FOUR   YEARS 

One  chilly  night  in  June,  1886,  the  ship  Hesper, 
bound  from  Melbourne  to  London,  sailed  into  the 
Channel.  She  carried  the  usual  wool  cargo  and 
twenty  saloon  passengers  besides.  When  the  Lizard 
light  was  sighted,  the  excitement  —  which  had  in- 
creased hourly  since  the  Western  Islands  were  left 
astern — knew  no  reasonable  bounds.  For  the  Hesper 
was  a  hundred  and  eight  days  out ;  and  among  her 
passengers  were  grizzled  Colonists,  to  whom  this  light 
was  the  first  glimmer  of  England  for  thirty  years ;  men 
who  had  found  in  the  Colonial  Exhibition  at  South 
Kensington  an  excuse  to  intrust  vast  flocks  and  herds 
to  the  hands  of  overseers,  and  to  consummate  that 
darling  scheme  of  every  prosperous  Colonial,  which 
they  render  by  their  phrase  "  a  trip  home."  Sweep- 
stakes on  the  date  of  sighting  England,  got  up  in  the 
tropics,  were  now  promptly  settled ;  quarrels  begun  in 
the  Southern  Ocean  were  made  up  in  the  magic  ele- 
ment of  British  waters ;  discontent  was  in  irons,  and 
joy  held  the  ship.  Far  into  the  middle-watch  festive 
souls  perambulated  the  quarter-deck  with  noisy  ex- 
pressions of  mirth,  though  with  the  conviction  that  the 
vessel  was  behaving  badly ;  whereas  the  vessel  was  a 
good  deal  more  innocent  of  that  charge  than  the  gen- 

20 


After  Four  Years 

tlemen  who  preferred  it.  But  even  when  the  last  of 
these  roysterers  retired  there  was  still  one  passenger 
left  on  the  poop. 

A  young  man  leaned  with  folded  arms  upon  the  port 
rail,  staring  out  into  the  night.  It  seemed  as  though 
his  eye  penetrated  the  darkness,  and  found  something 
bright  beyond,  so  wistful  was  its  gaze.  One  bell  rang 
out  from  the  forecastle,  two  bells  followed  half  an  hour 
later  at  one  o'clock,  but  the  figure  of  this  dreamer  re- 
mained motionless.  For  an  hour  he  did  not  stir ;  but, 
as  his  imagination  became  more  vivid,  the  expression 
of  his  eyes  grew  softer,  until  their  yearning  melted  into 
a  thin,  thin  film,  and  the  firm  Hues  of  the  mouth  re- 
laxed, and  facial  creases  carved  by  a  few  hard  years 
were  smoothed  away.  He  was  only  a  few  hours  ahead 
of  the  Hesper  after  all :  she  was  off  the  Cornish  coast, 
and  he  (in  fancy)  far  up  the  Thames. 

Three-bells  aroused  the  dreamer.  He  stood  up- 
right with  a  start.  He  passed  his  hand  quickly  across 
his  forehead,  as  if  to  rid  his  brain  of  weak  thoughts. 
He  began  tramping  the  deck  rapidly.  Now  the  whole 
man  was  changed:  his  step  was  brisk,  his  frame  in- 
stinct with  nervous  animation,  his  chest  swelled  proud- 
ly, his  eyes  sparkled  with  triumph.  He  had  hung  over 
the  rail  like  any  sentimental  home-comer ;  he  marched 
the  deck  like  a  conquering  hero. 

Yet  this  was  one  of  the  youngest  men  on  board,  and 
his  years  of  absence  from  England  were  but  a  tithe  of 
some  of  his  fellow-passengers.  During  a  long  voyage 
the  best  and  the  worst  of  a  man's  character  come  out ; 
but  this  man's  display  had  been  less  complete  than 
any  one  else's,  and  he  was  probably  the  better  liked 

21 


At  Large 

on  board  in  consequence.  Though  reserved  and 
quiet,  he  had,  indeed  without  being  conscious  of  it, 
become  very  popular.  Perhaps  one  factor  in  this  was 
the  accidental  discovery,  half-way  through  the  voyage, 
that  he  could  draw  uncommonly  well ;  for  it  opened  up 
a  source  of  unexpected  entertainment  at  a  time  when 
the  stock  amusements  of  the  high  seas  had  begun  to 
flag.  But  there  was  one  thing  about  him  which,  had 
his  fellow-passengers  suspected  it,  in  all  probability 
would  have  interfered  considerably  with  his  popular- 
ity: this  was  the  astounding  fact  that  at  the  age  of 
twenty-five  he  had  already  made  his  fortune. 

One  scene  from  the  bush  life  of  this  exceedingly 
lucky  young  gentleman  has  already  been  set  forth.  It 
will  be  sufficient  to  briefly  glance  at  the  remainder  of 
his  Colonial  career,  since  details  of  unbroken  success 
are  voted  a  bore  by  common  consent. 

The  firm  of  Flint  and  Edmonstone  did  well  out  of 
licensed  hawking.  Perhaps  their  honesty — which  was 
as  transparent  as  it  was  original  in  that  line  of  business 
— had  much  to  do  with  their  success;  for  although 
squatters  were  at  first  sceptical  of  the  new  firm,  their 
eyes  were  at  once  opened  to  the  iniquitous  prices  of 
the  Jews,  who  had  hitherto  enjoyed  a  monopoly  of 
their  custom.  The  newcomers  thus  gained  experi- 
mental patronage,  which  they  retained  on  their  merits. 
After  a  year  they  advanced  a  step  in  the  mercantile 
scale  of  the  Colony :  they  set  up  a  general  store  at  a 
rising  settlement  on  the  Darling.  The  store  had  not 
been  opened  six  months  when  the  senior  partner's 
chequered  life  in  the  Colonies  was  terminated  in  a 
manner  utterly  unforeseen.     Word  came  that  he  had 

22 


After  Four  Years 

inherited,  through  an  accommodating  series  of  deaths, 
money  and  property  in  Ireland.  It  was  no  brilliant 
heritage,  but  it  held  out  advantages  greater  on  the 
whole  than  back-block  storekeeping  could  be  expected 
to  afford.  Withdrawing  a  temperate  share  of  the 
profits,  Mr.  John  Flint  kicked  the  dust  of  the  Riverina 
from  his  long  boots,  and  finally  disappeared  from  the 
face  of  the  desert,  and  Edmonstone  was  left  sole  pro- 
prietor of  a  most  promising  "  concern." 

The  luck  that  had  hitherto  attended  him  was  soon 
to  be  enhanced ;  for,  gold  being  discovered  close  to  the 
little  township  on  the  Darling,  a  "  rush  "  from  all  parts 
of  Australia  followed.  As  in  most  similar  cases  of  late 
years,  expectations  were  by  no  means  realised  on  the 
new  diggings.  Still,  people  came,  and  the  storekeeper 
was  a  made  man. 

A  colonist  of  less  than  three  years'  standing,  he 
joined  three  congenial  spirits  in  the  enterprise  of 
stocking  a  station  in  the  new  Kimberley  district  of 
Western  Australia.  Here  a  huge  success  seemed  cer- 
tain in  process  of  time ;  when,  in  the  full  tide  of  pros- 
perity, with  all  he  touched  turning  to  gold  beneath 
his  fingers,  with  the  lust  of  wealth  upon  him,  there 
came  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling.  He  realised  that 
he  had  already  amassed  a  fortune — small  enough  as 
fortunes  go,  but  beyond  his  wildest  hopes  when  quit- 
ting England.  He  saw  that  to  go  farther  was  to  pur- 
sue wealth  for  wealth's  sake — which  was  a  rather  lofty 
view  of  it;  and  that  luck  might  not  last  for  ever — 
which  was  shrewd;  and  that,  with  the  sufficiency  he 
had  won,  a  rather  better  kind  of  existence  was  within 
reach.     In  short,  he  sickened  of  money-grubbing  in  a 

23 


At  Large 

single  night,  and  turned  desperately  home-sick  in- 
stead ;  and,  as  it  was  not  a  game  of  cards,  he  was  able, 
without  incurring  anything  worse  than  compassion,  to 
rise  a  winner.  He  determined  to  go  home,  invest  his 
"  pile,"  live  on  the  interest,  and — devote  himself  to  art ! 
He  journeyed  forthwith  to  Melbourne,  and  there  suc- 
ceeded in  disposing  of  his  share  in  the  Kimberley  sta- 
tion for  a  sum  little  short  of  five  figures. 

Dick  Edmonstone  was  opposed  to  sensational 
methods,  or  he  would  have  taken  the  first  mail-steamer 
and  dropped  like  a  thunderbolt  among  his  people  in 
England,  with  his  money  in  his  pocket.  Besides,  an 
exceptional  amount  of  experience  crammed  into  four 
years  had  robbed  him,  among  other  things,  of  nearly 
(though  not  quite)  all  his  boyish  impetuosity.  So  he 
merely  wrote  two  letters  by  the  first  mail  to  his  mother 
and  to  a  certain  Colonel  Bristo.  Thereafter  he  took 
his  passage  by  the  clipper  Hesper,  then  loading  at  Will- 
iamstown,  and  prepared  for  a  period  of  reflection, 
anticipation,  and  well-earned  rest. 

Dick  Edmonstone  had  altered  a  good  deal  during 
his  four  years  in  Australia.  In  the  first  place,  the  big 
boy  had  become  a  man,  and  a  man  who  held  up  his 
head  among  other  men ;  a  man  who  had  made  his  way 
by  his  own  indomitable  perseverance,  and  who  thereby 
commanded  your  respect;  a  man  of  all-round  ability 
in  the  opinion  of  his  friends  (and  they  were  right) ;  a 
man  of  the  world  in  his  own  (and  he  was  wrong).  And 
all  at  twenty-five!  The  old  tremendous  enthusiasm 
had  given  place  to  a  thoroughly  sanguine  tempera- 
ment of  lusty,  reliant  manhood.  He  was  cooler  now, 
no  doubt,  but  his  heart  was  still  warm  and  his  head 

24 


After  Four  Years 

still  hot.  Strangers  took  him  for  thirty.  His  manner 
was  always  independent,  could  be  authoritative,  and 
was  in  danger  of  becoming  arrogant.  This  much,  suc- 
cessful money-hunting  had  naturally  brought  about. 
But  a  generous  disposition  had  saved  him  from  down- 
right selfishness  through  it  all,  and  the  talisman  of  a 
loyal,  honest,  ardent  love  had  led  him  blameless 
through  a  wild  and  worldly  life.  And  he  was  still 
young — young  in  many  ways.  His  hopes  and  beliefs 
were  still  boundless;  they  had  all  come  true  so  far. 
He  had  not  found  the  world  a  fraud  yet.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  liked  the  world,  which  was  natural;  and 
thought  he  knew  it,  which  did  not  follow  because  he 
happened  to  know  some  rough  corners  of  it. 

One  curious  characteristic  of  young  Edmonstone  as 
a  public  schoolman  and  a  modern  young  Englishman 
was  the  entire  absence  in  him  of  false  pride.  Though 
transported  pretty  directly  from  Cambridge  to  Aus- 
tralia, he  had  taken  to  retail  trade  (of  a  humble  kind 
at  that)  with  philosophical  sang-froid.  On  leaving 
England  he  had  asked  himself.  What  was  his  chief  ob- 
ject in  going  out?  And  he  had  answered.  To  make 
money  and  return.  Did  it  matter  how  he  made  it, 
once  out  there?  No.  No  manual  toil  need  degrade 
him,  no  honest  business  put  him  to  shame.  In  Eng- 
land it  is  different ;  but  in  her  democratic  Colonies  her 
younger  sons — whether  from  Poplar  or  from  Eton — 
must  take  the  work  that  offers,  as  they  covet  success. 
Dick  Edmonstone  jumped  at  his  first  opening ;  that  it 
chanced  to  be  in  the  licensed  hawking  line  cost  him 
hardly  a  pang. 

Indeed,  he  looked  back  lovingly  in  his  success  on 
2S 


At  Large 

those  early  days,  when  all  he  possessed  in  the  world 
was  invested  in  that  daring  venture.  He  thought  of 
the  anxiety  that  consumed  him  at  the  time,  and  of  Jack 
Flint's  cooling  influence ;  and  whenever  he  thought  of 
those  days  one  episode  rose  paramount  in  his  brain, 
obliterating  other  memories.  That  episode  was  the 
"  sticking-up  "  of  the  wagon  on  the  first  trip  by  Sun- 
down and  his  men,  which  must  have  meant  his  ruin 
but  for  the  extraordinary  behaviour  of  the  bushranger 
with  regard  to  the  pocket-book  and  its  contents.  He 
did  not  forget  that  the  bushranger  had  preserved  his 
Hfe  as  well  as  restored  his  money.  And  that  hundred 
pounds  actually  turned  out  to  be  the  nucleus  of  a  fort- 
une! Sundown — poor  fellow — was  captured;  per- 
haps by  this  time  hanged,  or  imprisoned  for  life.  Just 
before  the  Hesper  sailed,  word  of  the  outlaw's  arrest 
in  a  remote  district  of  Queensland  was  telegraphed 
from  Brisbane.  He  had  been  heard  of  from  time  to 
time  during  the  preceding  years,  but  on  the  whole  his 
gang  had  done  less  mischief  and  shed  less  blood  than 
some  of  their  predecessors.  As  for  Dick,  when  he 
read  of  the  capture  he  was  downright  sorry.  It  may 
be  a  passive  order  of  kindness  that  refrains  from  rob- 
bing a  man ;  yet  Dick  was  so  peculiarly  constituted  as 
to  feel  in  secret  more  than  a  passing  regret  at  the  news. 
But  as  the  Hesper  drew  towards  the  Channel  he 
thought  less  and  less  of  the  life  he  had  left  behind,  and 
more  and  more  of  the  life  before  him.  He  longed  all 
day  to  feel  the  springy  turf  of  England  under  foot  once 
more ;  to  have  the  scent  of  English  flowers  in  his  nos- 
trils ;  to  listen  to  English  larks  carolling  out  of  sight  in 
the  fleecy  clouds  of  an  English  sky.     How  green  the 

26 


After  Four  Years 

fields  would  seem !  How  solid  the  houses,  how  vener- 
able the  villages,  how  historic  the  rivers  of  the  Old 
World!  And  then  how  he  longed  to  plunge  into  the 
trio  he  styled  "  his  people  " — his  mother  the  widow, 
his  brother  the  City  clerk,  his  sister  the  saint!  Yet 
what  were  these  yearnings  beside  one  other!  What 
the  dearest  kin  beside  her  who  must  yet  be  nearer  and 
dearer  still! — the  young  girl  from  whom  he  had  fled 
to  seek  his  fortune — for  whom  he  had  found  it.  In 
her  his  honest  yearning  centred,  in  her  his  high  hopes 
culminated.  Of  her  he  thought  all  day,  gazing  out 
over  the  sun-spangled  waves,  and  all  night,  tossing  in 
his  berth.  A  thousand  times  he  cursed  his  folly  in 
choosing  canvas  before  steam  ;  the  time  was  so  long — 
and  seemed  longer;  the  brightest  days  were  intermi- 
nable ages;  favouring  gales  were  lighter  than  zephyrs. 

He  allowed  no  doubts  to  interfere  with  the  pleasures 
of  anticipation;  no  fears,  no  anxieties.  If  he  thought 
of  what  might  have  happened  at  home  during  the  last 
four  or  five  months  since  he  had  received  news,  the 
catalogue  of  calamities  was  endless.  He  did  not  be- 
lieve disappointment  possible  through  any  sort  of  a 
calamity.  If  those  he  loved  still  lived — as  he  knew 
they  did  five  or  six  months  ago — then  he  was  sure  of 
his  reception ;  he  was  sure  of  hearts  and  hands ;  he  was 
sure  of  his  reception  from  every  one — yes,  from  every 
one. 

The  future  seemed  so  splendid  and  so  near!  Yet 
it  was  giving  the  future  hardly  a  fair  chance  to  expect 
as  much  of  it  as  young  Edmonstone  expected  during 
the  last  days  of  his  homeward  voyage. 


27 


IV 

HOW  DICK  CAME  HOME 

A  CROWD  of  the  usual  dock  order  had  gathered  on 
the  quay  at  Blackwall  by  the  time  the  Hesper  made  her 
appearance,  towed  by  two  Channel  tugs.  Some  time, 
however,  passed  before  the  vessel  swung  near  enough 
to  the  quay  for  recognitions  to  begin ;  and  by  then  the 
dingy  line  of  dock  loafers  and  watermen  was  enhanced 
by  a  second  rank  of  silk  hats  and  a  slight  leaven  of 
bonnets.  With  intolerable  sloth  the  big  ship  swung 
closer  and  closer,  broadside  on ;  greetings  were  ex- 
citedly exchanged,  and  at  length  the  gangway  was 
thrown  across  and  held  by  a  dozen  eager  hands. 

Dick  Edmonstone,  at  the  break  of  the  poop,  bent 
forward  to  search  among  the  faces  on  the  quay,  appar- 
ently without  finding  any  he  knew.  But  presently,  as 
his  eye  glanced  rapidly  up  and  down  the  line,  he  be- 
came conscious  of  one  gaze  fixed  steadily  upon  him ; 
twice  he  overlooked  this  face ;  the  third  time,  a  mutual 
stare,  a  quick  smile  of  delight,  a  bound  across  the 
gangway,  and  Dick  was  grasping  his  brother's  hand. 

"  Dick ! " 

"Maurice!" 

Then  they  seemed  to  gasp  in  the  same  breath : 

"  Never  should  have  known  you !  "  "  Nor  I  you — 
from  Adam  I " 

2§ 


How  Dick  Came  Home 

And  then  they  were  silent  for  a  whole  minute,  scru- 
tinising one  another  from  head  to  heels ;  until  Maurice 
said  simply  that  he  had  got  away  from  the  bank  and 
needn't  go  back,  and  fell  to  asking  about  the  voyage, 
and  the  weather,  and  the  passengers,  and  had  the  cabin 
been  comfortable  ?  and  what  a  stunning  ship !  To  all 
of  which  Dick  replied  coherently ;  and  for  five  minutes 
they  talked  as  though  they  had  parted  last  week. 
Only  for  such  trifles  could  they  find  ready  words ;  so 
much  was  inexpressible  just  at  first. 

They  went  into  Dick's  cabin;  and  there  their 
tongues  loosened  a  little.  All  were  well  at  home,  and 
happy,  and  comfortable ;  the  news  was  good  all  round, 
as  Dick  phrased  it,  with  thankfulness  in  his  heart. 
That  was  the  first  delicious  fact  to  be  realised.  After 
that,  words  flew  with  marvellous  rapidity ;  the  brothers 
were  soon  like  two  competitive  human  looms,  turning 
them  out  one  against  the  other.  Fortunately  the  pace 
was  too  quick  to  last ;  in  ten  minutes  both  were  breath- 
less. Then  they  fastened  upon  stewards  and  Customs 
officials,  and,  by  dint  of  some  bullying  and  a  little  brib- 
ing, managed  finally  to  get  clear  of  the  ship  with 
Dick's  luggage. 

Dick  was  in  tremendous  spirits.  He  was  back  in 
old  England  at  last,  and  testified  his  appreciation  of 
the  fact  every  minute. 

Between  Blackwall  and  Fenchurch  Street  he  made 
odious  comparisons  touching  Colonial  travelling;  in 
the  four-wheeler  across  to  Waterloo  he  revelled  in  the 
rattle  and  roar  of  the  traffic ;  along  the  loop-line  his 
eyes  feasted  on  the  verdant  fields  that  had  haunted  his 
dreams  in  the  wilderness. 

29 


At  Large 


The  Edmonstones  lived  in  a  plain  little  house  in  a 
road  at  Teddington,  in  which  all  the  houses  were  little, 
plain,  and  uniformly  alike.  They  called  their  house 
"  The  Pill  Box  " ;  but  that  was  a  mere  nickname,  since 
all  the  houses  in  that  plain  little  road  were  fearfully 
and  wonderfully  christened,  and  theirs  no  exception  to 
the  rule.  Its  name — blazoned  on  the  little  wooden 
gate — was  Iris  Lodge;  and  being  sane  people,  and 
sufficiently  familiar  with  suburban  ideas,  the  Edmon- 
stones had  never  attempted  to  discover  the  putative 
point  of  the  appellation.  They  were  satisfied  to  dub 
the  house  "  The  Pill  Box,"  with  malicious  candour, 
among  themselves.  For  the  Edmonstones  did  not 
take  kindly  (much  less  at  first)  to  road  or  house.  And 
naturally,  since  five  years  ago,  before  Mr.  Edmon- 
stone's  death,  they  had  lived  in  a  great,  square,  charm- 
ing villa,  with  a  garden-wall  running  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  along  the  towing-path,  within  sight  of  Kingston 
Bridge.  But  then  Richard  Edmonstone  senior  had 
dropped  dead,  at  the  height  of  his  reputed  success  on 
the  Stock  Exchange  and  of  his  undoubted  popularity 
in  the  clubs.  To  the  surprise  of  all  but  those  who 
knew  him  most  intimately,  he  had  left  next  to  nothing 
behind  him ;  the  house  by  the  river  had  been  hurriedly 
sold,  young  Richard  had  as  promptly  emigrated,  and 
the  rest  of  them  had  bundled  into  as  small  a  house  as 
they  could  find  in  the  neighbourhood. 

But  squat,  snug,  bourgeois  as  it  was,  Dick  felt  that 
the  plain  little  house  was  nevertheless  home,  as  the 
cab  rattled  over  the  railway  bridge  and  along  the  road 
to  the  left,  and  so  on  towards  "  The  Pill  Box."  It  was 
raining  (that  June  was  not  an  ideal  month),  and  the 

30 


How  Dick  Came  Home 

vehicle  was  the  detestable  kind  of  victoria  so  much 
affected  by  the  honest  cabmen  of  the  Thames  valley ; 
still,  Dick  insisted  on  having  the  hood  down  to  sniff 
the  air  of  his  native  heath.  Yet,  though  in  sufficiently 
good  spirits,  his  heart  was  beating  quickly  within  him. 
These  homecomings  are  no  small  things,  unless  the 
rover  be  old  or  loveless,  and  Dick  was  neither. 

After  all,  the  meeting  was  got  over,  as  such  meet- 
ings have  been  got  over  before,  with  a  few  tears  and 
fewer  words  and  melting  looks  and  warm  embraces. 
And  so  Dick  Edmonstone  was  given  back  to  the 
bosom  of  his  family. 

When  the  first  and  worst  of  it  was  over,  he  could 
not  rest  in  a  chair  and  talk  to  them,  but  must  needs 
roam  about  the  room,  examining  everybody  and  every- 
thing as  he  answered  their  questions.  How  well  his 
mother  was  looking !  and  how  her  dark  eyes  beamed 
upon  him ! — the  more  brightly,  perhaps,  from  their 
slight  moisture.  Her  hand  was  as  smooth  and  white 
as  ever,  and  her  hair  whiter ;  how  well  it  suited  her  to 
wear  no  cap,  and  have  the  silver  mass  pushed  back 
like  that!  He  had  declared  to  himself  he  had  never 
seen  so  pretty  a  woman  over  five-and-thirty — and  his 
mother  was  fifty,  and  looking  every  year  of  it.  And 
Fanny — well,  she,  perhaps,  was  as  far  from  beauty  as 
ever;  but  her  wavy  chestnut  hair  was  matchless  still, 
and  as  for  expression,  had  there  ever  been  one  so 
sweet  and  gentle  in  the  world  before  ?  It  was  Maurice 
who  had  all  the  good  looks,  though.  But  Maurice  was 
pale  and  slim  and  rather  round-shouldered;  and  in- 
stantly the  image  of  the  lad  bending  all  day  over  the 
desk  rose  in  Dick's  mind  and  made  him  sad.    What  a 

31 


At  Large 


different  man  the  bush  would  make  of  Maurice !  Then 
he  looked  round  at  the  old  familiar  objects ;  the  Land- 
seer  engravings  and  Fanny's  water-colour  sketches ; 
the  cottage  piano,  the  writing-table,  old  pieces  of  odd 
ware  which  he  remembered  from  his  cradle,  the  fancy 
ormolu  clock,  which  he  had  hated  from  his  earliest 
days  of  discernment.  He  looked  no  further — a  tele- 
gram was  stuck  up  in  front  of  the  clock,  and  flaunted 
in  his  face : 

"  Edmonstone,  Iris  Lodge,  Teddington,  —  Ship 
Hesper  signalled  Start  Point  ten  this  morning. — Bone 
and  PhilHps." 

He  read  it  curiously. 

"Why,  that's  three  days  old!"  he  said,  laughing. 
"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  been  staring  at  that 
bit  of  paper  ever  since — a  sort  of  deputy-me,  eh  ?  " 

"  It  was  the  first  we  heard,"  said  the  mother  simply ; 
and  a  subtle  something  brought  back  her  tears.  "  i. 
half  think  I'll  frame  it !  "  she  added,  smiling  at  her  own 
weakness. 

"  I  found  out  your  other  signallings,"  said  Maurice. 
"  I  was  in  Bone's  ofBce  half-a-dozen  times  yesterday." 

Dick  continued  his  survey  of  the  room. 

"  Well,  I  think  I  recognise  everything,"  he  said 
presently ;  "  but,  I  say,  Fanny,  I've  got  a  thing  or  two 
for  you  to  arrange  in  your  high-art  fashion ;  some 
odds  and  ends  you  haven't  seen  the  like  of  before,  I 
expect." 

"  No  !  "  said  Fanny. 

"  Oh,  but  I  have,  though ;  and  some  of  'em  expressly 
for  you." 

"  No !— really  ?— then  what  ?  " 
32 


How  Dick   Came  Home 

"  Aha,  you'll  see,"  said  Dick.  "  Maurice,  we'll  un- 
pack them  now — if  that  brute  of  a  Customs  function- 
ary has  left  a  whole  thing  in  the  box."  And  the  two 
left  the  room. 

"  To  think,"  said  Fanny  musingly,  "  that  our  Dick 
is  back  !  Really  back,  and  never  going  out  again ;  and 
been  through  all  kinds  of  fearful  adventures ;  and 
Sailed  round  the  world,  and  been  away  four  years  and 
a  half — one  can  scarcely  realise  any  of  it.  But  above 
all,  to  think  that  he  has  made  his  fortune !  " 

Mrs.  Edmonstone  started. 

"  Oh,  Fanny,"  cried  she,  "  I  had  forgotten  that ! 
He  never  once  spoke  of  it,  and  I  didn't  think  of  it. 
Oh,  my  boy,  my  boy !  "  She  burst  fairly  into  sobs. 
Her  joy  had  been  too  great  to  bear  before  she  was  re- 
minded of  this  overwhelming  fact ;  it  had  brought  the 
tears  again  and  again  to  her  eyes ;  now  it  became  akin 
to  pain. 

Yet  she  did  nothing  but  smile  after  her  sons  re- 
turned, laden  with  treasures  and  curios  which  they 
laid  out  all  over  the  room.  There  was  a  famous  rug 
of  Tasmanian  opossum  skins,  a  dozen  emu  eggs,  the 
tail  of  a  lyre-bird,  the  skin  of  an  immense  carpet- 
snake,  a  deadly  collection  of  boomerangs  and  spears, 
and  a  necklace  of  quandong  stones  mounted  with  sil- 
ver. Mrs.  Edmonstone  beheld  in  silent  wonder.  As 
for  Fanny,  she  was  in  ecstasies  ("  It  is  as  good  as  the 
Exhibition,"  she  said).  So  the  time  slipped  away,  and 
before  half  the  quaint  things  had  been  examined  and 
described  it  was  dinner-time.  They  were  all  so  happy 
together  that  first  afternoon  ! 

Few  and  simple  were  the  courses  at  Iris  Lodge,  but 
33 


At  Large 


at  dessert  Maurice  produced  some  particular  old  Bene- 
dictine (which  had  been  in  the  family  as  long  as  he 
had),  and  Dick's  health  was  drunk  with  unspeakable 
enthusiasm.  Dick  blushed;  for  it  made  what  he 
burned  to  say  more  awkward;  but  at  last  he  blurted 
out,  apparently  appealing  to  the  mildewed  Benedictine 
bottle : 

"  I  say — will  you  all  think  me  an  awful  brute  if  I 
clear  out  for  an  hour  or  two?  Mother,  will  you? 
You  know  what  I  have  still  to  do — whom  to  see — to 
complete  my  first  day  in  old  England." 

"  Why,  of  course !  "  from  the  younger  ones ;  and 
Mrs.  Edmonstone  simply  pronounced  the  question: 
"  Graysbrooke  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick.  "  I  must  go  and  see  them,  you 
know.     You  know  why,  too,"  he  added  simply. 

No  one  said  anything.  There  was  a  rather  awk- 
ward pause,  which  it  fell  to  Fanny  to  break. 

"  By  the  bye,"  she  said  tentatively,  "  they  have  a  vis- 
itor there." 

She  was  prepared  to  add  further  information,  but 
Dick  looked  at  her  blankly,  and  clearly  was  not  listen- 
ing. They  rose  from  the  table,  and  almost  directly  the 
three  who  went  into  the  drawing-room  heard  the  front 
door  open  and  shut. 

Dick  was  thankful  to  be  out  in  the  cool  and  the  twi- 
ligfht,  and  alone.  The  day  had  been  showery  and  dull, 
but  late  in  the  afternoon  the  clouds  had  broken  up,  and 
now  they  floated  serenely  in  the  still  air,  just  touched 
with  a  pale  pink  rim  to  westward.  The  gravelly 
ground  was  wet  enough  to  sound  crisply  underfoot — 
nothing  more.     Drip-drip  fell  the  drops  from  the  la- 

34 


How  Dick  Came  Home 

burnums  in  the  gardens  all  down  the  road;  drip-drip 
all  round,  from  tree,  shrub,  and  flower ;  every  leaf  dis- 
tilling perfume  every  minute.  Dick  appreciated  the 
evidence  of  his  nostrils  with  the  relish  of  a  man  who 
has  smelt  nothing  but  brine  for  four  months,  nothing 
like  this  for  four  years.  Nevertheless,  he  walked  on 
briskly,  down  into  the  London  road,  that  here  lies  par- 
allel with  the  river,  then  down  a  curve  to  the  left,  as 
the  highroad  bends  away  from  the  river  to  form  the 
High  Street  of  Teddington ;  then  to  a  full  stop  at  a  cor- 
ner opposite  the  old  churchyard.  He  had  intended 
to  walk  along  the  lower  road  towards  Kingston, 
straight  to  the  gates  of  Graysbrooke,  which  fronted 
the  river.  But  now  the  thought  occurred  to  him 
(prompted  by  the  sweetness  of  the  evening,  and 
backed  up  by  the  fact  that  it  was  as  yet  rather  early 
to  drop  in  casually  for  the  evening  anywhere — even 
at  the  house  of  one's  sweetheart  whom  one  hadn't  seen 
for  over  four  years).  How  about  hiring  a  boat  and 
rowing  to  Graysbrooke?  It  was  no  distance;  and 
then,  only  to  be  afloat  again  on  the  dear  old  Thames ! 
Dick  did  not  hesitate  at  the  corner  long,  but  turned 
sharp  down  to  the  left,  and  hired  his  shallop  at  the 
ferry  landing. 

Down  with  the  stream  a  hundred  yards,  and  he  was 
level  with  the  lock ;  a  few  strong  strokes  against  the 
stream,  and  the  way  already  on  the  boat,  and  her  nose 
grounded  on  the  rollers ;  a  minute's  exertion,  a  min- 
ute's fumbling  for  coppers,  and  he  floated  out  into  the 
narrow  reach  beyond  the  lock.  He  paddled  slowly 
along,  bestowing  friendly  glances  on  the  banks.  The 
cottages  on  the  left,  close  to  the  lock,  he  remembered 

35 


At  Large 

just  as  he  saw  them ;  but  the  poplars  on  the  island,  in- 
verted in  the  glassy  water — he  felt  convinced  they  had 
grown.  With  each  stroke  of  the  oars  the  voice  of  the 
weir  grew  louder;  it  seemed  to  be  roaring  its  rough 
welcome  to  him,  just  as  yonder  alders,  right  across  the 
stream,  through  the  danger-posts,  were  bowing  theirs. 
How  glorious  it  was,  this  first  row  on  the  Thames ! 

But  now  the  house  was  almost  in  sight,  and  he  could 
think  no  longer  of  the  river.  Slowly,  as  he  sculled 
on,  Graysbrooke  discovered  itself:  a  gray,  stone,  tur- 
reted  building,  set  in  leafy  trees.  There  were  battle- 
ments along  the  coping,  which  might  have  looked  ven- 
erable but  for  the  slates  that  peeped  between  them ;  yet 
the  stone  was  mellowed  by  time ;  and  altogether  there 
was  nothing  either  offensively  new  or  unwholesomely 
ancient  in  the  appearance  of  the  house.  Dick  saw  it 
all  in  his  mind  even  before  he  stopped  rowing  to  sat- 
isfy the  cravings  of  his  hungry  eyes.  Still  twilight, 
and  the  river  here  a  mirror  without  flaw,  every  stone 
had  its  duplicate  in  the  clear  depths  below;  that  par- 
allelogram of  ruddy  light  that  fastened  Dick's  atten- 
tion showed  with  especial  sharpness  in  the  reflection. 
The  light  was  in  the  drawing-room.  They  had  fin- 
ished dinner.     He  could  storm  them  now — at  once. 

A  Httle  inlet  entered  one  end  of  the  lawn ;  in  here  he 
sculled  and  moored  his  boat.  Then  he  sprang  upon 
the  close-cropped  grass  and  stood  transfixed. 

The  light  in  the  dining-room  was  turned  low;  but 
that  in  the  room  to  the  right  of  the  hall-door — the 
room  with  the  French  window — was  shining  brightly. 
And  through  the  open  window  there  burst,  as  Dick's 
feet  touched  the  grass,  the  sound  of  a  girl's  song.    The 

36 


How  Dick  Came  Home 

voice  was  low  and  clear,  and  full  of  youth  and  tender- 
ness ;  it  rose,  and  fell,  and  trembled,  for  the  singer  pos- 
sessed feeling ;  it  hastened  here  and  lingered  there,  and 
abused  none  of  these  tricks,  for  she  sang  with  what  is 
rarer  than  feeling — taste.  Dick  trembled  violently; 
he  wanted  to  rush  into  the  room  then  and  there,  but 
he  was  thrilled,  and  rooted  to  the  ground;  and  after 
a  bar  or  two  the  voice  soothed  him  and  set  his  spirit 
at  rest,  like  the  touch  of  a  true  friend's  hand  in  the 
hour  of  pain.  Then  he  stood  quite  humbly,  hoping  it 
would  never,  never  end.  What  the  song  was  he  didn't 
know,  and  never  thought  of  finding  out  afterwards; 
he  might  have  heard  it  a  hundred  times  or  never  be- 
fore ;  he  knew  nothing  during  these  few  transported 
minutes — nothing,  except  that  he  was  listening  to  her 
voice. 

As  the  last  low  note  was  borne  out  upon  the  air,  and 
voices  within  the  room  murmured  the  conventional 
grace  after  song,  Dick  stepped  forward,  meaning  to 
boldly  enter.  Two  yards  from  the  window,  however, 
he  silently  halted ;  it  was  so  dark  that  he  could  see  into 
the  room  without  himself  being  seen  from  within.  The 
temptation  to  avail  himself  of  so  obvious  an  advantage 
was  too  strong  to  be  resisted. 

There  were  three  persons  in  the  room,  but  for  the 
eyes  of  Dick  only  one — the  two  men  made  no  imme- 
diate impression  on  his  physical  perception.  It  was  a 
supreme  moment  in  his  life.  He  had  left  England  for 
the  sake  of  a  young  girl,  to  make  his  way  in  the  world 
so  that  he  might  return  and  proudly  claim  her :  for  he 
had  won  her  heart.  And  now  he  had  made  his  way 
through  toil  and  privation  to  a  small  fortune,  and  had 

37 


At  Large 


come  back  to  woo  her  hand.  She  was  here — this  girl 
for  whom  he  had  given  his  early  manhood's  strength, 
his  brain's  essence,  the  best  drops  of  his  life's  blood ; 
this  girl  whose  image  had  beckoned  him  onward  when 
he  grew  faint,  and  urged  him  still  further  in  the  hour 
of  success ;  whose  name  had  risen  to  his  lips  in  de- 
spair and  in  peril,  inspiring  new  courage — here,  with- 
in ten  feet  of  him ;  he  striving  to  realise  it,  and  to  grow 
cool  before  going  into  her  presence,  yet  yearning  to 
fling  himself  at  her  feet. 

It  was  good  that  she  was  ignorant  of  his  approach, 
for  it  showed  her  to  him  in  a  fair  light  straight  away 
— completely  natural  and  unconscious  of  herself.  She 
had  seated  herself  after  her  song  at  a  low  table,  and 
was  making  an  indolent  attack  on  some  trifling  work 
with  her  scissors.  The  lamplight,  from  under  its 
crimson  shade,  fell  upon  her  hair  and  face  and  neck 
with  marvellous  results,  for  it  made  her  beautiful.  She 
was  not  at  all  beautiful.  She  had  a  peerless  complex- 
ion, a  good  nose,  matchless  teeth ;  otherwise  her  feat- 
ures were  of  no  account.  But  she  was  exceedingly 
pretty ;  and  as  she  sat  there  with  the  warm  lamplight 
changing  her  ordinary  light-coloured  hair  into  a 
ruddy  gold  fit  for  any  goddess,  a  much  less  prejudiced 
person  than  Dick  Edmonstone  might  have  been  par- 
doned the  notion  that  she  was  lovely,  though  she  was 
not. 

When  at  last  he  managed  to  raise  his  eyes  from  her 
they  rested  upon  a  face  that  was  entirely  strange.  A 
tall,  massive  man,  in  evening  dress,  leaned  with  an 
elbow  on  the  chimneypiece,  his  head  lightly  resting  on 
his  hand,  one  foot  on  the  edge  of  the  fender.     There 

38 


How  Dick  Came  Home 

could  be  no  two  opinions  as  to  the  beauty  of  this  face 
— it  was  handsome  and  striking  to  the  last  degree. 
Burnt,  like  Dick's,  to  the  colour  of  brick-dust,  it  was 
framed  in  dark  curly  hair,  with  beard  and  whiskers  of 
a  fairer  hue,  while  the  mouth  was  hidden  by  a  still 
fairer,  almost  golden,  moustache.  The  effect  was 
leonine.  Dick  caught  his  profile,  and  saw  that  the 
steady,  downward  gaze  was  bent  upon  the  dainty  little 
head  that  glowed  in  the  lamplight.  From  his  vantage- 
post  outside  the  window  he  glanced  from  observer  to 
observed.  They  were  a  sufficiently  good-looking 
pair,  yet  he  overrated  the  one  and  underrated  the 
other.  He  was  by  no  means  attracted  to  this  unknown 
exquisite ;  there  was  an  ease  about  his  pose  which  be- 
spoke freedom  also;  and  his  scrutiny  of  the  uncon- 
scious girl  was  of  a  kind  that  would  at  least  have  irri- 
tated any  man  in  Dick's  position. 

Dick  allowed  his  attention  to  rest  but  briefly  upon 
the  third  occupant  of  the  room — a  man  with  snowy 
hair  and  whiskers,  who  was  apparently  dropping  ofif 
to  sleep  in  a  big  armchair.  Somehow  or  other,  the 
sight  of  the  men — but  particularly  of  the  stranger — 
acted  on  his  heart  like  a  shower-bath  on  a  man's  head ; 
his  pulse  slackened,  he  regained  with  interest  the  self- 
possession  with  which  he  had  first  approached  the  win- 
dow. He  took  three  steps  forward,  and  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

A  startled  cry  escaped  the  old  man  and  the  girl. 
The  man  by  the  fireplace  dropped  his  forearm  and 
turned  his  head  three  inches. 

Dick  strode  forward  and  grasped  an  outstretched 
hand. 

39 


At  Large 


"Colonel  Bristol" 

"  Dick  Edmonstone ! — is  it  really  Dick  ?  "  a  well- 
remembered  voice  repeated  a  dozen  times.  "  We 
knew  you  were  on  your  way  home,  but — bless  my 
soul !  bless  my  soul !  " 

The  old  soldier  could  think  of  nothing  else  to  say ; 
nor  did  it  matter,  for  Dick's  salute  was  over  and  his 
back  turned ;  he  was  already  clasping  the  hand  of  the 
fair  young  girl,  who  had  risen,  flushed  and  breathless, 
to  greet  him. 

He  was  speechless.  He  tried  to  say  "  Alice,"  but 
the  sound  was  inarticulate.     Their  eyes  met. 

A  clatter  in  the  fender.  The  tall  man's  heel  had 
come  down  heavily  among  the  fire-irons. 

"  Let  me  introduce  you,"  said  Colonel  Bristo  to 
this  man  and  Dick.  "  You  will  like  to  know  each 
other,  since  you  both  come  from  the  same  country: 
Mr,  Edmonstone,  from  Australia;  Mr.  Miles,  from 
Australia !  Mr.  Miles  was  born  and  bred  there,  Dick, 
and  has  never  been  in  England  before.  So  you  will 
be  able  to  compare  notes." 

The  two  men  stared  at  each  other  and  shook  hands. 


40 


V 

THE   FIRST   EVENING  AT   GRAYSBROOKE 

"  Sit  down,  boy,  sit  down,"  said  Colonel  Bristo, 
"  and  let  us  have  a  look  at  you.  Mind,  we  don't  know 
yet  that  you're  not  an  impostor.  You  should  have 
brought  proofs." 

"  Here  are  five-foot-ten  of  them,"  said  Dick,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  To  believe  that,  we  must  put  you  through  exami- 
nation— and  cross-examination,"  the  Colonel  added 
with  a  glance  at  his  daughter ;  "  although  I  half  be- 
lieve you  really  are  the  man  you  profess  to  be.  What 
do  you  say,  Alice  ?  " 

"  I  have  a  strong  case —  "  Dick  was  beginning,  but 
he  was  cut  short. 

"  It  is  Dick,"  said  the  oracle  sweetly. 

"  You  take  his  word  for  it  ?  "  asked  her  father. 

"  No,  I  identify  him,"  Alice  answered  with  a  quiet 
smile  ;  *'  and  he  hasn't  altered  so  very  much,  when  one 
looks  at  him." 

Dick  turned  his  head  and  met  her  eyes ;  they  were 
serene  and  friendly.  "  Thank  you,"  he  said  to  her, 
with  gratitude  in  his  voice.  And,  indeed,  he  felt  grate- 
ful to  them  all ;  to  the  Colonel  for  his  ponderous  pleas- 
antry, to  Alice  for  her  unembarrassed  manner,  to  Mr. 

41 


At  Large 


Miles  for  the  good  taste  he  showed  in  minding  his  own 
business.     (He  had  strolled  over  to  the  window.) 

"  And  when  did  you  land  ?  "  inquired  the  Colonel. 

"  This  morning." 

"  Only  this  morning !  "  exclaimed  AHce ;  "  then  I 
think  it  was  too  good  of  you  to  come  and  see  us  so 
soon ;  don't  you,  papa  ?  " 

Very  kind  of  him  indeed,  papa  thought.  Dick  was 
pleased ;  but  he  thought  they  might  have  understood 
his  eagerness.  Alice,  at  any  rate,  should  not  have 
been  surprised — and  probably  was  not.  "  I  couldn't 
put  it  off,"  he  said,  frankly. 

There  was  a  slight  pause ;  then  the  Colonel  spoke : 

"  That's  kindly  said,  my  boy ;  and  if  your  mother 
knew  how  it  does  us  good  to  see  you  here,  she  would 
scarcely  grudge  us  an  hour  or  two  this  evening — 
though  grudge  it  you  may  depend  she  does.  As  for 
ourselves,  Dick,  we  can  hardly  realise  that  you  are 
back  among  us." 

"  I  can't  realise  it  at  all,"  murmured  Dick,  aloud 
but  to  himself. 

"  I  won't  worry  you  by  asking  point-blank  how 
you  Uke  Australia,"  the  Colonel  went  on,  "  for  that's  a 
daily  nuisance  in  store  for  you  for  the  next  six  months. 
But  I  may  tell  you  we  expect  some  tough  yarns  of  you ; 
our  taste  has  been  tickled  by  Miles,  who  has  some 
miraculous — why,  where  is  Miles  ?  " 

Miles  had  vanished. 

"  What  made  him  go,  I  wonder  ?  "  asked  Alice,  with 
the  slightest  perceptible  annoyance.  Dick  did  not 
perceive  it,  but  he  thought  the  question  odd.  To  dis- 
appear seemed  to  him  the  only  thing  a  stranger,  who 

42 


The    First   Evening  at   Graysbrooke 

was  also  a  gentleman,  could  have  done;  he  was 
scarcely  impartial  on  the  point,  however. 

Alice  took  up  the  theme  which  her  father  had 
dropped. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Miles  has  some  wonderful  stories,"  said 
she ;  "  he  has  had  some  tremendous  adventures." 

"  The  deuce  he  has !  "  thought  Dick,  but  he  only 
said :  "  You  should  take  travellers'  tales  with  a  grain 
of  salt." 

"  Thanks,"  AHce  instantly  retorted ;  "  I  shall  re- 
member that  when  you  tell  yours." 

They  laughed  over  the  retort.  All  three  began  to 
feel  quite  at  ease. 

"  So  you  kept  up  your  sketching  out  there,  and 
drew  bush  scenes  for  our  illustrated  papers  ?  "  said  the 
Colonel. 

"  Two  or  three  times ;  more  often  for  the  Colonial 
papers." 

"  We  saw  them  all,"  said  Alice,  graciously — "  I 
mean  the  English  ones.  We  cut  them  out  and  kept 
them."     (She  should  have  said  that  she  did.) 

"  Did  you,  though  ?  "  said  Dick,  delighted. 

"  Yes,"  said  Alice,  "  and  I  have  a  crow  to  pick  with 
you  about  them.  That  '  Week  in  the  Sandwich  Isl- 
ands ' — it  was  yours,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

Dick  admitted  that  it  was. 

"  Oh,  and  pray  when  were  you  in  the  Sandwich 
Islands?" 

He  confessed  that  he  had  never  seen  them. 

"  So  you  not  only  cheated  a  popular  journal — a  nice 
thing  to  do ! — but  deceived  the  British  public,  which 
is  a  far  more  serious  matter.     What  explanation  have 

43 


At  Large 


you  to  offer  ?  What  apology  to  *  One  who  was  De- 
ceived ' — as  I  shall  sign  my  '  Times  '  letter,  when  I 
write  it?" 

*'  Alice,  you  are  an  inquisitor,"  said  Colonel  Bristo. 
But  Alice  replied  with  such  a  mischievous,  interested 
smile  that  Dick  immediately  ceased  to  feel  ashamed  of 
himself. 

"  The  fact  is,"  he  owned,  "  your  popular  journal 
doesn't  care  a  fig  whether  one  has  been  to  a  place  so 
long  as  one's  sketches  of  it  are  attractive.  I  did  them 
a  thing  once  of  a  bullock-dray  stuck  up  in  the  mud; 
and  how  did  it  appear  ?  *  The  War  at  the  Cape :  Dif- 
ficulties in  Reaching  the  Front.'  And  they  had  altered 
the  horns  of  my  bullocks,  if  you  please,  to  make  'em 
into  South  African  cattle!  You  see,  just  then  Africa 
was  of  more  interest  to  your  British  public  than  Aus- 
tralia. Surely  you  won't  be  so  hard  on  me  now? 
You  see  you  have  made  me  divulge  professional 
secrets  by  your  calumnies." 

Alice  said  she  forgave  him,  if  all  that  was  true ;  but 
she  added,  slyly :  "  One  must  take  travellers'  tales 
with  a  pinch  of  salt,  you  know !  " 

"  Come,  Alice,"  said  her  father,  "  if  you  insist  on 
pitching  into  our  artist,  he  shall  have  his  fling  at  our 
photographer.  Dick,  she's  taken  to  photography — 
it's  lately  become  the  fashion.  Look  on  that  table, 
under  the  lamp;  you'll  find  some  there  that  she  was 
trimming,  or  something,  when  you  dropped  in  our 
midst." 

"  May  I  look  at  them  ?  "  Dick  asked,  moving  over 
to  Alice. 

"  Certainly ;  but  they're  very  bad,  I'm  afraid ;  and 
44 


The   First    Evening  at    Graysbrooke 

since  you  artists  scorn  photography — as  so  inartistic, 
you  know — I  suppose  you  will  be  a  severe  critic." 

"  Not  when  this  is  the  subject,"  said  Dick,  in  a  low 
voice,  picking  up  a  print ;  "  how  did  you  manage  to 
take  yourself?  " 

He  was  sitting  beside  her  at  the  little  table,  with  the 
lamp  between  them  and  the  Colonel ;  he  instinctively 
lowered  his  voice,  and  a  grain  of  the  feeling  he  had  so 
far  successfully  repressed  escaped  into  his  tone. 

"  Someone  took  off  the  cap  for  me." 

"Oh.     Who?" 

"  Who  ?  Oh,  I  get  anybody  to  take  the  cap  off 
when  I  am  so  vain  as  to  take  myself — anybody  who  is 
handy." 

"  Mr.  Miles,  for  instance  ?  "  It  was  a  stray  ques- 
tion, suggested  by  no  particular  train  of  thought,  and 
spoken  carelessly;  there  was  no  trace  of  jealousy  in 
the  tone — it  was  too  early  for  that ;  but  Alice  looked 
up,  quick  to  suspect,  and  answered  shortly : 

"  Yes,  if  you  like." 

Dick  was  genuinely  interested,  and  noticed  in  her 
tone  nothing  amiss.  Several  of  the  photographs 
turned  out  to  be  of  AHce,  and  they  charmed  him. 

"  Did  Mr.  Miles  take  all  these  ?  "  he  asked,  lightly ; 
he  was  forced  to  speak  so  before  her  father:  the  re- 
straint was  natural,  though  he  marvelled  afterwards 
that  he  had  been  able  to  maintain  it  so  long. 

Alice,  however,  read  him  wrong.  She  was  pre- 
pared for  pique  in  her  old  lover,  and  imagined  it  before 
it  existed.     She  answered  with  marked  coldness : 

"  A  good  many  of  them." 

This  time  Dick  detected  the  unpleasant  ring  in  her 
45 


At  Large 


words — he  could  not  help  but  detect  it.  A  pang  shot 
to  his  heart.  His  first  (and  only)  impression  of  Miles, 
which  had  fled  from  his  mind  (with  all  other  impres- 
sions) while  talking  to  her,  swiftly  returned.  He  had 
used  the  man's  name,  a  minute  ago,  without  its  con- 
veying anything  to  his  mind ;  he  used  it  now  with  a 
bitterness  at  heart  which  crept  into  his  voice. 

"  And  don't  you  return  the  compliment  ?  I  see  no 
photographs  of  Mr.  Miles  here ;  and  he  would  look  so 
well  in  one." 

"  He  has  never  been  taken  in  his  life — and  never 
means  to  be.  Now,  Dick,  you  have  seen  them  all," 
she  added  quite  softly,  her  heart  smiting  her ;  and  with 
that  she  rolled  all  the  prints  into  one  little  cylinder, 
Dick  was  in  that  nervous  state  in  which  a  kind  word 
wipes  out  unkindness  the  moment  it  is  spoken,  and 
the  cloud  lifted  at  once  from  his  face.  They  were 
silent  for  more  than  a  minute.  Colonel  Bristo  quietly 
left  the  room. 

Then  a  strange  change  came  over  Dick.  While 
others  had  been  in  the  room,  composure  had  sat  nat- 
urally upon  him ;  but  now  that  they  were  alone  to- 
gether, and  the  dream  of  his  exile  so  far  realised,  that 
armour  fell  from  him,  and  left  his  heart  bare.  He 
gazed  at  his  darling  with  unutterable  emotion;  he 
yearned  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms,  yet  dared  not  to  pro- 
fane her  with  his  touch.  There  had  been  vows  be- 
tween them  when  they  parted — vows  out  of  number, 
and  kisses  and  tears;  but  no  betrothal,  and  never  a 
letter.  He  could  but  gaze  at  her  now — his  soul  in  that 
gaze — and  tremble ;  his  lips  moved,  but  until  he  had 
conquered  his  weakness  no  words  came.   As  for  Alice, 

46 


The    First    Evening  at    Graysbrooke 

her  eyes  were  downcast,  and  neither  did  she  speak. 
At  length,  and  timidly,  he  took  her  hand.  She  suf- 
fered this,  but  drew  ever  so  slightly  away  from  him. 

"  Alice,"  he  faltered,  "  this  is  the  sweetest  moment 
of  my  life.  It  is  what  I  have  dreamt  of,  Alice,  but 
feared  it  might  never  come.  I  cannot  speak ;  forgive 
me,  dear." 

She  answered  him  cunningly: 

"  It  is  very  nice  to  have  you  back  again,  Dick." 

He  continued  without  seeming  to  hear  her,  and  his 
voice  shook  with  tenderness :  "  Here — this  moment 
— I  can't  believe  these  years  have  been;  I  think  we 
have  never  been  separated " 

"  It  certainly  doesn't  seem  four  years,"  said  Alice 
sympathetically,  but  coolly. 

Dick  said  nothing  for  a  minute;  his  eyes  hung  on 
her  downcast  lids,  waiting  for  an  answering  beam  of 
love,  but  one  never  came. 

"  You  remember,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  calmer  voice, 
"  you  remember  the  old  days  ?  and  our  promises  ?  and 
how  we  parted  ?  "  He  was  going  on,  but  Alice  inter- 
rupted him  by  withdrawing  her  hand  from  his  and 
rising  from  her  chair. 

"  Dick,"  said  she,  kindly  enough,  "  don't  speak  of 
them,  especially  not  now — but  don't  speak  of  them  at 
all.  We  can't  have  childhood  over  again ;  and  I  was 
a  child  then — of  seventeen.  I  am  grown  up  now,  and 
altered ;  and  you — of  course  you  have  altered  too." 

"  Oh  Alice !  " — the  turning  of  the  door  handle  made 
him  break  off  short,  and  add  in  a  quick  whisper,  "  I 
may  speak  to  you  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Very  well,"  she  answered  indifferently,  as  there 
47 


At  Large 


entered  upon  them  a  little  old  lady  in  rustling  silk  and 
jingling  beads — an  old  lady  with  a  sallow  face  and  a 
piercing  black  eye,  who  welcomed  Dick  with  a  degree 
of  fussy  effusiveness,  combined  with  a  look  and  tone 
which  discounted  her  words. 

"  Delighted  to  see  you  back,  Mr.  Richard — a  pleas- 
ure I  have  often  looked  forward  to.  We  don't  wel- 
come conquering  heroes  every  day,"  were  in  them- 
selves sufficiently  kindly  words,  but  they  were  accom- 
panied by  a  flash  of  the  beady  eyes  from  Dick  to  Alice, 
and  a  scrutiny  of  the  young  fellow's  appearance  as 
searching  as  it  was  unsympathetic ;  and  when  a  smile 
followed,  overspreading  her  loose,  leathery,  wrinkled 
skin,  the  effect  was  full  of  uncanny  suggestion. 

"  Yes,  it  is  jolly  to  be  back,  and  thanks  very  much," 
said  Dick  civilly ;  "  and  it  is  charming  to  find  you  still 
here,  Mrs.  Parish." 

"  Of  course  I  am  still  here,"  said  the  leathery  little 
lady  brusquely :  as  if  Colonel  Bristo  could  live  without 
his  faithful  domestic  despot,  as  if  Graysbrooke  could 
stand  without  its  immemorial  housekeeper !  This 
Mrs.  Parish  was  ugly,  vain,  and  old,  and  had  ap- 
peared as  old  and  as  vain  and  as  ugly  when,  more  than 
twenty  years  ago,  she  first  entered  the  Colonel's  ser- 
vice. She  had  her  good  points,  however,  and  a  sense 
of  duty  according  to  her  lights.  Though  it  be  no  ex- 
travagant praise,  she  was  a  better  person  at  heart  than 
on  the  surface. 

She  now  inquired  with  some  condescension  about 
Dick's  Australian  life,  and  how  he  liked  it,  and  where 
he  had  been,  and  how  he  should  like  living  altogether 
out  there.     She  congratulated  him  on  his  success  (she 

48 


The    First    Evening  at   Graysbrooke 

called  it  "  luck "),  which  she  declared  was  in  the 
mouths  of  everybody.  On  that  he  felt  annoyed,  and 
wondered  if  she  knew  any  details,  and  what  figure  she 
would  bid  for  some — of,  say,  his  first  year — in  the 
local  gossip  market. 

"  Of  course  you  will  go  back,"  said  the  old  woman 
with  conviction ;  "  all  lucky  Colonists  do.  You  will 
find  England  far  too  dull  and  slow  for  you."  At  this 
point  Colonel  Bristo  and  Mr.  Miles  came  back,  chat- 
ting. "  I  was  saying,"  Mrs.  Parish  repeated  for  their 
benefit,  "  that  of  course  Mr.  Richard  will  soon  return 
to  Australia ;  he  will  tire  of  England  in  six  weeks ;  it 
is  always  the  way.  Mr.  Miles  is  the  happy  excep- 
tion !  "  with  a  smile  upon  that  gentleman  which  strove 
to  be  arch — with  doubtful  success. 

"  I  never  said  I  meant  to  make  *  Home  '  my  home," 
said  the  Australian,  with  the  drawl  of  his  race,  but  in 
tones  mellow  and  musical.  His  long  frame  sank  with 
graceful  freedom  into  a  chair  beside  Mrs.  Parish,  and 
his  clear  blue  eyes  beamed  upon  them  all — all  except 
Dick,  whom  he  forgot  to  notice  just  then. 

"  I  don't  think  Dick  means  to  go  back,"  said  the 
Colonel  cheerily.  "  That  would  be  treating  us  all 
abominably;  in  fact,  we  could  never  allow  it  —  eh, 
Dick?" 

Dick  looked  gravely  at  the  carpet. 

"  I  mean  to  settle  down  in  England  now,"  said  he ; 
and  he  could  not  refrain  from  a  sly  glance  at  Alice. 
Her  eyes,  bent  thoughtfully  upon  him,  instantly  filled 
with  mischief. 

"  You  mean  to  stay  at  home,  yet  sketch  the  ends  of 
the  earth ;  is  that  it  ?  "     Her  tone  changed  swiftly  to 

49 


At  Large 

one  of  extreme  kindness.  "  Well,  it  would  be  dread- 
ful if  you  didn't  stop  at  home  now.  Whatever  you 
do  "  (he  changed  colour ;  she  added  calmly),  "  think  of 
Mrs.  Edmonstone  and  Fanny  !  " 

A  little  later,  Alice  and  her  father  told  Dick  all  the 
news  of  themselves  that  they  could  think  of — how 
they  had  been  in  Italy  last  year,  and  in  Scotland  the 
year  before,  and  how  they  had  taken  a  shooting-box 
in  Yorkshire  for  this  year.  And  Alice's  manner  was 
very  courteous  and  kindly,  for  she  was  beginning  to 
reproach  herself  for  having  been  cruel  to  him  on  this 
his  first  evening,  and  to  wonder  how  she  could  have 
had  the  heart.  She  asked  him  if  he  had  forgotten  how 
to  dance,  and  said  he  must  begin  learning  over  again 
at  once,  in  order  to  dance  at  her  ball — her  very  own 
party — on  the  second  of  July. 

Poor  Dick's  spirits  once  more  rose  high,  though 
this  time  an  uneasy  sediment  remained  deep  in  his 
heart.  Without  the  least  intention  in  the  world,  Alice 
was  beginning  a  very  pretty  game  of  coquetry  with  her 
sweetheart — alas!  her  quondam  sweetheart.  While 
they  talked,  Mr.  Miles,  at  the  other  side  of  the  room, 
kept  up  an  entertaining  conversation  with  Mrs.  Par- 
ish. At  the  same  time  he  observed  Dick  Edmonstone 
very  narrowly — perhaps  more  anxiously  than  he  need 
have  regarded  an  old  friend  of  his  friends';  though 
perhaps  with  no  more  than  a  social  lion's  innate  sus- 
picion of  his  kind.     At  last  Dick  rose  to  go. 

Colonel  Bristo  went  out  with  him,  and  thrust  his 
arm  affectionately  through  the  young  man's  as  they 
crossed  the  lawn. 

"  Dick,"  said  he,  very  kindly,  "  I  thought  I  would 
SO 


The    First    Evening  at   Graysbrooke 

wait  till  I  saw  you  alone  to  congratulate  you  most 
heartily  on  having  made  your  way  so  splendidly.  Nay, 
don't  interrupt  me ;  your  way  in  the  world  is  already 
made,  and  nobly  made.  I  think  you  showed  your 
sense  —  and  more  —  in  stopping  short,  and  coming 
home  to  follow  up  the  career  you  love.  That  was  the 
intention  expressed  in  your  letter,  I  think  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  And  that  letter  ?  "  said  Dick  anxiously. 
He  had  felt  misgivings  about  it  ever  since  the  heat 
of  triumph  in  which  it  was  written  and  posted  in  Mel- 
bourne. 

"  I  liked  it,"  said  the  Colonel  simply ;  "  it  was  manly 
and  frank,  and  to  the  point.  You  shall  have  my  an- 
swer now ;  and  I,  too,  will  be  frank.  Four  years  ago, 
more  or  less,  I  was  forced  to  answer  in  a  certain  way 
a  certain  question — there  was  no  alternative.  Dick, 
think  seriously — you  are  both  four  years  older;  are 
you,  for  one,  still  of  the  same  mind  ?  " 

"  I  am ;  indeed  I  am,"  said  Dick,  earnestly. 

"  Then  take  your  chance !  "  said  Colonel  Bristo. 
"  I  cannot  say  more ;  I  don't  understand  women ;  I 
find  it  bitter  to  say  this  much,  I  that  am  to  lose  her. 
But  you  deserve  her ;  come  here  as  often  as  you  will ; 
you  will  be  very  welcome.  And  if  you  both  wish 
now — both,  mind ! — what  you  both  wished  then,  when 
for  obvious  reasons  I  could  not  hear  of  it " 

"You were  right  enough, sir," Dick  murmured  sadly. 

"  Then,"  continued  the  Colonel,  "  I  frankly  tell  you, 
I  shall  like  it.     That's  all ;  good-night  1 " 

Dick  looked  up  from  the  dewy  grass,  and  his  lips 
formed  a  grateful  sentence,  though  no  words  could  ex- 
press his  feeling  just  then.     He  looked  up,  but  the 

51 


At  Large 


honest,  simple-hearted  soldier  was  gone.  He  who  had 
faced  the  Russian  shot  and  shell  had  retreated  cow- 
ardly before  honest  English  thanks  ! 

The  young  man  stepped  into  his  boat,  undid  the 
painter,  and  floated  out  upon  the  broad  moonlit  river. 
Ah,  how  kind  of  Colonel  Bristo !  But  only  to  think 
what  those  words  would  have  been  to  them  four  years 
ago  !  Yes,  to  them ;  for  then  Alice  besought  the  con- 
sent that  had  just  been  given ;  besought  it  as  wildly  as 
himself.  And  now  did  she  even  desire  it?  He  had 
found  her  so  passionless,  so  different  from  all  he  had 
fancied,  or  hoped,  or  feared.  Once  she  had  been 
cruel,  but  anon  so  kind;  and  then  she  had  ridiculed 
him  in  pure  friendliness.  Alas,  fatal  friendliness ! 
Had  she  but  been  awkward  or  shown  him  downright 
coldness — anything  but  that.  As  to  this  Miles,  no 
need  to  think  about  him  yet.  The  question  was 
whether  Alice  Bristo  still  loved  Dick  Edmonstone,  not 
whether  there  was  another  man  in  the  case ;  time 
enough  for  that  afterwards.  Yet  a  few  short  hours 
ago  the  question — faced  so  calmly  now — would  have 
stunned  or  maddened  this  ardent  lover. 

Down  with  the  stream  came  peace  and  hope,  with 
the  soft,  soothing  touch  of  the  moonbeams ;  they  stole 
into  the  heart  of  Dick  Edmonstone;  they  held  it  for 
one  brief  moment.  For  a  sound  broke  on  his  ears 
which  made  him  stare  and  tremble,  and  drove  out  the 
sweet  influences  almost  before  their  presence  was  felt. 
Yet  the  sound  of  itself  was  sweet ;  the  very  same  sound 
had  thrilled  poor  Dick  as  he  leapt  ashore ;  it  was  the 
voice  of  Alice — singing  to  Mr.  Miles ! 


52 


VI 

SISYPHUS 

Dick  Edmonstone  slept  badly,  his  first  night  in 
England;  and  no  wonder,  since  already  a  sense  of 
grievous  disappointment  weighed  him  down.  When 
he  reached  home  and  his  own  room,  this  feeling  grew 
upon  him  ;  it  distracted  him,  it  denied  him  rest.  Where 
his  faith  had  been  surest,  disillusion  came  slowly  home 
to  him  ;  in  the  purest  spot  of  the  vision  the  reality  was 
dim  and  blurred.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  make 
sure  of  anything!  Above  all,  to  build  his  peace  of 
mind  on  the  shifting  sand  of  a  woman's  love ;  to  imag- 
ine —  simply  because  his  love  for  Alice  had  never 
wavered — that  Alice's  love  for  him  must  perforce  re- 
main equally  unchanged.  And  all  that  night  her  voice, 
as  he  had  last  heard  it,  rang  cruelly  in  his  ear,  and  a 
light  remark,  about  what  she  had  called  her  "  child- 
hood," lay  Uke  lead  at  his  heart. 

At  breakfast  he  could  not  quite  conceal  his  trouble ; 
he  looked  somewhat  haggard.  He  knew  that  he  was 
expected  to  be  in  high  spirits,  and  did  his  best  to  feign 
them,  but  his  mirth  was  perfunctory.  This  was  obvi- 
ous to  his  sister,  and  not  unnoticed  by  Mrs.  Edmon- 
stone. They  spoke  about  it  afterwards,  for  they  knew 
something  of  the  circumstances  at  Graysbrooke,  and 
had  their  own  opinion  of  the  guest  there. 

53 


At  Large 


Dick  fidgeted  all  the  morning,  and  passed  some  of 
the  time  in  unpacking  his  belongings.  In  the  after- 
noon he  left  the  house  full  of  conflicting  emotions. 
As  he  walked  up  the  drive,  Dick  could  not  tell  how 
he  had  waited  until  the  afternoon,  such  a  wild  elation 
took  possession  of  him  at  the  thought  of  again  seeing 
his  beloved.  Miss  Bristo  was  in  the  garden,  the  but- 
ler told  him — yes,  alone ;  and  Dick  walked  through  the 
house  and  on  to  the  top  of  the  shaven  lawn  that  sloped 
to  the  river. 

He  found  her  deep  in  a  magazine  and  in  the  stern 
sheets  of  the  boat,  which  was  moored  in  the  inlet.  She 
was  all  in  white,  for  the  day  was  sunny ;  and  she 
smiled  sweetly  from  under  the  broad  brim  of  her  straw 
hat  as  Dick  stepped  gravely  into  the  boat,  and  sat 
down  on  the  thwart  facing  her. 

She  looked  so  careless  and  so  bright  that  he  could 
not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  vex  her  straight  away;  so 
they  talked  lightly  of  this  and  that  for  a  full  quarter 
of  an  hour,  while  Dick  basked  recklessly  in  her  smiles, 
and  almost  persuaded  himself  that  this  was  happiness. 
But  at  last  came  a  pause ;  and  then  he  nerved  himself 
to  speak. 

"  Alice,"  he  began  gravely,  "  you  know  our  few 
words  last  night  ?  You  said  I  might  speak  to  you  to- 
day." 

"  Well,"  said  Alice,  carelessly. 

"  You  know  very  well  what  I  want  to  speak  about," 
rather  warmly. 

Alice  turned  down  her  leaf,  shut  up  her  magazine, 
leant  back,  and  surveyed  him  calmly. 

"  I  wish  I  didn't,  Dick,"  she  answered,  half  in  an- 
54 


Sisyphus 


noyance,  half  in  pity.  But  her  look  added :  "  Say  on  ; 
let  us  have  it  out — and  over." 

"  Last  night,"  said  Dick  smoothly,  "  I  asked  you  if 
you  remembered  old  days,  and  what  there  was  be- 
tween us,  and  so  on.  You  said  you  didn't  want  to 
remember  them,  and  talked  about  your  '  childhood.' 
You  said  you  were  altered,  and  that,  of  course,  I  must 
be  altered."     He  paused. 

So  far  he  had  been  cool  and  fluent ;  but  he  had  re- 
hearsed all  this.  His  next  words  came  hot  from  the 
heart,  and  fell  unsteadily  from  the  lips. 

"Oh,  Alice,"  cried  he,  "did  you  mean  that?  Say 
that  you  didn't !  I  have  never  changed,  never  can. 
Oh,  say  that  you  are  the  same.  Say  that  you  only 
meant  to  tease  me,  or  try  me,  or  anything  you  like — 
anything  but  that  you  meant  all  that  about  our  being 
altered,  and  forgetting  the  past — "  his  voice  was  pite- 
ous in  its  appeal ;  "  say  that  you  didn't  mean  it !  "  he 
repeated  in  a  whisper. 

"  I  did  mean  it,"  Alice  replied ;  not  harshly  or  coldly, 
but  with  due  deliberation. 

Dick  turned  pale.  He  grasped  the  gunwale  ner- 
vously with  each  hand,  and  leaned  forward. 

"  Then  I — no  longer — have  your  love  ?  "  he  asked 
in  a  hollow  voice. 

Alice  looked  at  him  reproachfully;  there  was  even 
indignation  in  her  glance. 

"  How  can  you  force  such  things  from  me  ?  Have 
you  no  pride  ?  "  He  winced.  "  But,  since  you  press 
for  an  explanation,  you  shall  have  one.  Before  you 
went  away  I  knew  no  one.  I  was  a  child;  I  had 
always  b^en  fond  of  you;  my  head  was  full  of  non- 
55 


At  Large 


sense;  and,  when  you  asked  me,  I  said  I  loved  you. 
It  was  true,  too,  in  a  childish  way." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Dick,  in  a  low  voice. 

Alice  was  flushed,  and  her  eyes  sparkled,  but  her 
self-possession  was  complete. 

"  Well,  you  come  back  after  four  years,  and,  it  seems, 
expect  to  find  me  still  a  child.  Instead  of  that,  I  am 
a  woman — a  sensible  woman,"  with  a  good  humoured 
twinkle  of  the  eyes,  "  disinclined  to  go  on  with  the  old 
nonsense  just  where  it  left  ofif — you  must  admit  that 
that  would  be  absurd  ?  But  for  the  rest,  I  am  as  fond 
of  you,  Dick,  as  I  was  then — only  without  the  childish 
nonsense.  No  one  is  more  delighted  to  see  you  back, 
and  welcome  you,  than  I  am ;  no  one  is  more  your 
friend.  Dear  Dick,"  she  added  in  a  tone  of  earnest 
entreaty,  '*  cannot  we  be  friends  still  ?  " 

"  No !  "  exclaimed  Dick,  hoarsely. 

The  flush  died  away  from  the  girl's  face,  to  return 
two-fold. 

"  No  !  "  he  repeated.  "  You  give  me  your  love,  and 
then,  after  years  of  separation,  you  offer  me  your 
friendship  instead.  What  is  that  to  me?  How  can  I 
make  that  do — a  lamp  instead  of  the  sun?  It  is  too 
much  to  ask  of  any  man :  you  know  it.  Who  has 
taught  you  to  play  with  men's  hearts  like  this  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  too  kind,"  said  AUce,  coldly.  She  had 
stifled  her  humiliation,  and  was  preparing  to  leave  the 
boat. 

"  Say  rather  too  cruel !  "  returned  Dick  very  bit- 
terly. "  Nay,  not  on  my  account.  I  will  save  you  the 
trouble  of  going." 

He  sprang  from  the  boat  as  he  spoke.  One  moment 
56 


Sisyph 


us 


he  stood  on  the  bank  with  a  blight  on  his  brave  eyes ; 
the  next,  he  raised  his  hat  proudly,  turned  on  his  heel 
and  was  gone. 

No  sooner  had  he  disappeared  than  the  young  lady 
produced  a  little  lace  handkerchief,  and  rained  her 
tears  upon  its  wholly  inadequate  area.  She  sobbed 
for  nearly  five  minutes ;  and,  after  that,  dipped  her  pink 
fingers  in  the  water,  and  made  assiduous  efforts  to 
expunge  the  most  tell-tale  symptoms.  Then  she  took 
up  the  magazine  and  tried  to  revive  her  interest  in  the 
story  she  had  been  reading,  but  she  could  remember 
nothing  about  it.  Finally  she  was  about  to  quit  the 
boat  in  despair,  when,  looking  up,  whom  should  she 
see  but  Dick  Edmonstone  towering  above  her  on  the 
bank,  hat  in  hand. 

"  I  want  you  to  forgive  me,"  he  said  very  humbly. 
She  affected  not  to  understand  him,  and  intimated  as 
much  by  raising  her  eyebrows. 

"  For  what  I  said  just  now  "  (rapidly) — "  for  every- 
thing I  have  said  since  I  saw  you  first,  last  night. 
And  I  want  to  say — if  you  will  still  have  it — let  us  be — 
friends." 

Her  face  instantly  brightened ;  every  trace  of  affec- 
tation vanished ;  she  smiled  gratefully  upon  him. 

"  Ah,  that  is  sense !  "  said  she. 

"  But,"  said  Dick,  still  more  earnestly,  "  there  are 
two  questions  I  do  think  I  may  ask,  though  whether 
you  will  answer  them — " 

"  I  will,"  the  girl  exclaimed  rashly. 

"  Well,  then,  the  first  is,  have  you  taken  a  dislike 
to  me — a  new  one?  Don't  laugh,"  he  said,  colour- 
ing ;  "  I  mean  it.     It  is  so  possible,  you  know.     I  have 

57 


At  Large 


led  a  rough  life ;  you  might  easily  be  ashamed  of  the 
things  I  had  to  do,  to  make  my  way  at  first ;  you  might 
easily  think  me  less  polished,  less  gentlemanly:  if  it 
is  that,  I  implore  you  to  say  so." 

She  could  scarcely  keep  grave ;  even  he  might  have 
smiled,  but  for  the  question  he  had  still  to  ask. 

"  No,  it  is  not  that ;  to  my  mind  you  are  just  the 
same." 

Dick  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief. 

"  The  second  question  may  offend  you ;  if  it  does — 
well,  it  can't  be  helped.  I  think  my  old  footing — even 
though  you  were  a  child  then — is  sufficient  excuse  for 
it.  It  is,  then — and,  indeed,  you  must  grant  me  an 
honest  answer — do  you  love  another  man  ?  " 

"  And  it  is  not  that,"  said  Alice  shortly,  nevertheless 
looking  him  full  in  the  face. 

A  great  load  was  removed  from  his  heart. 

"  Then  it  is  only,"  he  said  eagerly — "  only  that  you 
wish  to  cancel  the  past  ?  really  only  that  ?  " 

"  Really  only  that,"  she  repeated  with  a  smile. 

"  Then,"  added  Dick,  hope  rekindling  in  his  heart, 
"  may  I  never — that  is,  won't  you  hold  out  to  me  the 
least  faint  spark  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  had  better  leave  well  alone,"  said 
Alice;  and  she  stepped  lightly  from  the  boat  as  she 
spoke.     "  Now  I  must  go  in.     Will  you  come,  too  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  must  say  good-bye." 

"Really?  Then  good-bye,  Dick."  Another  sweet 
smile  as  she  stretched  out  her  hand.  "  And  come  as 
often  as  ever  you  can ;  you  will  always  be  welcome." 

He  watched  her  slim  form  tripping  daintily  across 
the  grass. 

58 


Sisyph 


us 


"  Ay,  I  will  come !  "  he  muttered  between  his  teeth ; 
"  and  I  shall  win  you  yet,  Miss  Caprice,  though  I  have 
to  begin  all  over  again.  To  start  afresh !  How  could 
I  have  borne  the  thought  yesterday?  Yet  to-day  it 
must  be  faced.  This  minute  I  give  up  looking  back, 
and  begin  to  look  forward.  And  it  may  be  better  so ; 
for  when  I  win  you,  as  win  you  I  shall,  you  will  be  all 
the  dearer  to  me.  I  might  not  have  valued  you  as  I 
ought — who  knows?  You  do  not  deny  me  hope;  I 
shan't  deny  it  to  myself.  You  shall  be  mine,  never 
fear.  For  the  present,  have  your  wish — we  are  only 
friends." 

His  resolution  taken,  Dick  Edmonstone  threw  up 
vain  regrets ;  "  friendly  relations  "  with  Alice  were 
duly  established,  and  at  first  the  plan  worked  tolera- 
bly well.  They  had  one  or  two  common  interests, 
fortunately.  Alice  dabbled  in  water-colours ;  in  which 
Dick  could  help  her,  and  did.  In  return,  Alice  took 
a  lively  interest  in  his  sketches ;  and  they  would  some- 
times talk  of  the  career  to  which  he  was  to  devote  him- 
self. Then  there  was  the  river ;  they  were  both  good 
oars,  and,  with  Alice,  rowing  was  a  passion. 

Beyond  these  things  there  was  little  enough  to  bring 
them  together.  In  everything  else  Mr.  Miles  either 
stepped  in  or  enjoyed  a  previous  pre-eminence.  At 
first  Dick  tried  hard  to  hate  this  man  for  his  own  sake, 
without  being  jealous  of  him ;  but  under  the  circum- 
stances it  was  impossible  for  jealousy  not  to  creep  in. 
He  certainly  distrusted  Miles;  the  man  struck  him 
from  the  first  as  an  adventurer,  who  had  wormed  him- 
self by  mysterious  means  into  the  friendship  of  the 
guileless,  single-hearted  Colonel  Bristo ;  and  observa- 

59 


At  Large 


tion  deepened  this  impression.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  pair  saw  very  Httle  of  each  other.  Dick  naturally 
avoided  Miles,  and  Miles — for  some  good  reason  of 
his  own — shunned  Dick.  In  fact,  the  jealous  feeling 
did  not  arise  from  anything  he  saw  or  heard :  the 
flame  was  promoted  and  fed,  as  it  were,  at  second- 
hand. 

Deep  in  his  heart,  poor  Dick  had  counted  on  being 
something  of  a  lion  (it  was  only  human)  on  his  return 
from  Australia,  at  least  on  one  hearth  besides  his  own ; 
and  lo !  a  lion  occupied  that  hearth  before  him — a  Hon, 
moreover,  of  the  very  same  type.  The  Bristos  didn't 
want  to  hear  Australian  experiences,  because  they  had 
already  heard  such  as  could  never  be  surpassed,  from 
the  lips  of  Miles ;  their  palate  for  bush  yarns  was  de- 
stroyed. Dick  found  himself  cut  out,  in  his  own  line, 
by  Miles.  His  friends  were  very  hospitable  and  very 
kind,  but  they  had  no  wish  to  learn  his  adventures. 
And  those  adventures !  How  he  had  hoarded  them  in 
his  mind!  how  he  had  dreamed  in  his  vanity  of  en- 
thralling the  Colonel  and  thrilUng  Alice !  He  had 
hoped  at  least  to  interest  them;  and  even  in  that  he 
failed.  Each  Httle  reminiscence  yawned  over,  each 
comparison  or  allusion  ignored — these  were  slight 
things  with  sharp  edges.  With  AHce,  it  more  than 
once  happened  that  when  he  touched  on  his  strange 
experiences  she  forgot  to  listen,  which  wounded  him ; 
or  if  she  made  him  repeat  it,  it  was  to  cite  some  far 
more  wonderful  story  of  Mr.  Miles — which  sowed  salt 
in  the  wound.  Of  course  vanity  was  its  own  cure,  and 
he  dropped  the  subject  of  AustraHa  altogether;  but 
he  was  very  full  of  his  romantic  life,  and  this  took  him 

60 


Sisyph 


us 


a  day  or  two,  and  cost  him  some  moments  of  bitter- 
ness. 

So  Dick's  first  fortnight  in  England  passed,  and  on 
the  whole  he  believed  he  had  made  some  sort  of  prog- 
ress with  Alice.  Moreover,  he  began  rather  to  like 
wooing  her  on  his  merits.  On  consideration,  it  was 
more  satisfactory,  perhaps,  than  reviving  the  old  boy- 
and-girl  sentiment  as  if  there  had  been  no  four  years' 
hiatus;  more  satisfactory,  because  he  never  doubted 
that  he  would  win  her  in  the  end.  It  is  to  be  noted 
that  his  ideas  about  one  or  two  things  changed  in  a 
remarkable  degree  during  those  first  days. 

One  morning,  when  they  chanced  to  be  particularly 
confidential  together,  Dick  said  suddenly : 

"  By  the  bye,  how  did  you  come  to  know  this — Mr. 
Miles?"     He  had  almost  said  "  this  fellow  Miles." 

"  Has  papa  never  told  you  ?  "  Alice  asked  in  sur- 
prise. 

"  No,  never." 

"Nor  Mr.  Miles  himself?  Ah,  no:  he  would  be 
the  last  person  to  speak  of  it.  But  I  will  tell  you. 
Well,  then,  it  was  when  we  were  down  in  Sussex. 
Papa  was  bathing  (though  I  had  forbidden  it),  when 
he  was  seized  with  cramp,  out  of  his  depth.  He  must 
certainly  have  been  drowned;  but  a  great  handsome 
fellow,  -  dressed  like  a  fisherman,  saw  his  distress, 
rushed  into  the  sea,  swam  out,  and  rescued  him  with 
the  help  of  a  boat.  Poor  papa,  when  he  came  to  him- 
self, at  once  offered  the  man  money ;  and  here  came 
the  surprise.  The  man  laughed,  refused  the  money, 
dived  his  hand  into  his  own  pocket,  and  threw  a  sov- 
ereign to  the  boatman  who  had  helped !  " 

6i 


At  Large 


Dick's  interest  was  thoroughly  aroused,  and  he 
showed  it ;  but  he  thought  to  himself :  "  That  was  un- 
necessary. Why  couldn't  the  fellow  keep  to  the  part 
he  was  playing  ?  " 

And  Alice  continued :  "Then  papa  found  out  that  he 
was  a  gentleman  in  disguise — a  Mr.  Miles,  from  Syd- 
ney !  He  had  been  over  some  months,  and  was  seeing 
England  in  thorough  fashion.  Indeed,  he  seemed  a 
regular  boatman,  with  his  hands  all  hard  and  seamed 
with  tar." 

"  And  your  father  made  friends  with  him  ?  " 

"  Naturally ;  he  brought  him  up  to  the  hotel,  where 
I  heard  all  about  the  aflFair.  You  may  imagine  the 
state  I  was  in !  After  that  we  saw  a  good  deal  of  him 
down  there,  and  papa  got  to  like  him  very  much,  and 
asked  him  to  come  and  stay  with  us  when  he  grew 
tired  of  that  kind  of  life  and  returned  to  London.  And 
that's  all." 

"  How  long  did  you  say  it  is  since  he  saved  your 
father's  life  ?  "  Dick  asked,  after  a  short  pause. 

"  Let  me  see,  it's — yes,  not  quite  a  month  ago." 

Dick  gave  vent  to  a  scarcely  audible  whistle. 

"  And  he  has  no  other  friends  in  England  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of." 

"  And  writes  no  letters  nor  receives  any  ?  "  (He 
was  speaking  from  his  own  observation.) 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  But  how  should  I  know  ?  or 
what  does  it  matter?" 

"  In  fact,  he  is  a  friendless  adventurer,  whom  you 
don't  know  a  thing  about  beyond  what  you  have  told 
me?" 

Alice  suddenly  recoiled,  and  a  dangerous  light 
gleamed  in  her  eyes. 

62 


Sisyph 


us 


"  What  do  you  mean  ?  I  don't  understand  you. 
Why  all  these  questions  ?  " 

Dick  regarded  her  unflinchingly.  He  knew  what  an 
honest  answer  would  cost  him,  yet  he  was  resolved  to 
speak  out. 

"  Because,"  said  he,  impressively  and  slowly,  "  be- 
cause I  don't  believe  Mr.  Miles  is  what  he  makes  him- 
self out  to  be." 

He  knew  that  he  had  made  some  advance  in  her 
esteem,  he  knew  that  these  words  would  lose  him  all 
that  he  had  gained,  and  he  was  right.  A  flash  of  con- 
tempt lit  up  the  girl's  eyes  and  pierced  to  his  soul. 
"  Noble  rival !  "  said  she ;  and  without  another  word 
swept  haughtily  past  him  —  from  the  garden  where 
they  had  been  walking — into  the  house. 


63 


VII 

SOUTH   KENSINGTON 

The  first  act  of  every  Australian  who  landed  in 
England  that  summer  was,  very  naturally,  to  visit  the 
Exhibition — their  Exhibition — at  South  Kensington. 

Dick  was  not  an  Australian,  and  it  therefore  did  not 
consume  him  to  put  off  South  Kensington  until  he  had 
been  a  week  or  so  quietly  at  home.  Nevertheless  he 
was  sufficiently  eager  to  inspect  the  choice  products 
of  a  land  that  he  regarded  with  gratitude  as  indeed  his 
alma  mater;  and  still  more  eager  to  expatiate  on  all 
that  was  to  be  seen  to  insular  friends,  who  believed 
that  New  Zealand  was  an  inland  colony,  and  who 
asked  if  Victoria  was  not  the  capital  of  Sydney.  On 
that  very  first  evening  he  had  made  a  sort  of  ofifer  to 
escort  Colonel  Bristo  and  Alice ;  but  there  he  was  too 
late ;  and  he  experienced  the  first  of  a  series  of  petty 
mortifications — already  mentioned — which  originated 
from  a  common  cause.  Mr.  Miles  had  already  been 
with  the  Bristos  to  the  Exhibition,  and  had  proved  a 
most  entertaining  showman.  He  had  promised  to  ac- 
company them  again  in  a  week  or  two;  would  not 
Dick  join  the  party  ?  For  three  visits  would  be  more 
than  impartial  persons,  such  as  the  Colonel  and  his 
daughter,  were  likely  to  care  about — even  with  so 
splendid  a  cicerone  as  Mr.  Miles. 

64 


South  Kensington 


Of  course,  Dick  was  not  going  to  play  second  fiddle 
to  the  Australian  deliberately  and  with  his  eyes  open. 
He  made  his  excuses,  and  never  alluded  to  the  matter 
again.  But  one  day,  after  a  morning's  business  in  the 
City,  he  went  alone. 

When  he  was  once  in  the  vast  place,  and  had  found 
his  way  to  the  Australian  section,  his  interest  speedily 
rose  to  a  high  pitch.  It  is  one  thing  to  go  to  an  exhi- 
bition to  be  instructed,  or  to  wonder  what  on  earth 
half  the  things  are ;  it  is  something  quite  different  to 
find  yourself  among  familiar  objects  and  signs  which 
are  not  Greek  to  you,  to  thread  corridors  lined  with 
curios  which  you  hail  as  the  household  gods  of  your 
exile.  Instead  of  the  bored  outsider,  with  his  shallow 
appreciation  of  everything,  you  become  at  once  a  dis- 
criminate observer  and  intelligent  critic,  and  sightsee- 
ing for  once  loses  its  tedium.  Dick  wandered  from 
aisle  to  aisle,  from  stand  to  stand,  in  rapt  attention. 
At  every  turn  he  found  something  of  peculiar  interest 
to  him :  here  it  was  a  view  of  some  township  whose 
every  stick  he  knew  by  heart ;  there  a  sample  of  wood 
bearing  on  the  printed  label  under  the  glass  the  name 
of  a  sheep  station  where  he  had  stayed  time  out  of 
number. 

The  golden  arch  at  the  entrance  to  the  Victorian 
Court  arrested  him,  as  it  arrested  all  the  world;  but 
even  more  fascinating  in  his  eyes  was  the  case  of 
model  nuggets  close  at  hand.  He  heard  a  small  boy 
asking  his  mamma  if  they  were  all  real,  and  he  heard 
mamma  reply  with  bated  breath  that  she  supposed  so  ; 
then  the  small  boy  smacked  his  lips,  and  uttered  awed 
(though    slangy)    ejaculations,  and    the    enlightened 

65 


At  Large 


parent  led  him  on  to  wonders  new.  But  Dick  still 
gazed  at  the  nuggets ;  he  was  wondering — if  he  could 
have  it  all  over  again — whether  he  would  rather  pick 
up  one  of  these  fellows  than  win  again  their  equivalent 
through  toil  and  enterprise,  step  by  step,  when  a  smart 
slap  on  the  back  caused  him  to  turn  sharp  round  with 
an  exclamation. 

A  short,  stout,  red-faced  man  stood  at  his  elbow 
with  arms  akimbo,  and  grinned  familiarly  in  his  face. 
Dick  looked  him  up  and  down  with  a  stare  of  indigna- 
tion ;  he  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  recognise  the 
fellow ;  yet  there  he  stood,  his  red-stubbled  chin  thrust 
forward,  and  a  broad,  good-humoured  grin  on  his 
apish  face,  and  dressed  gorgeously.  He  wore  a  high 
white  hat  tilted  backward,  a  snowy  waistcoat,  a  daz- 
zling tie,  and  a  black  frock-coat,  with  an  enormous  red 
rose  in  the  button  hole.  His  legs,  which  now  formed 
two  sides  of  an  equilateral  triangle  with  the  floor  for 
its  base,  were  encased  in  startling  checks,  and  his  feet, 
which  were  small,  in  the  glossiest  patent  leather.  His 
left  hand  rested  gloved  upon  his  hip,  and  four  fingers 
of  his  ungloved  right  hand  were  thrust  into  his  waist- 
coat pocket,  leaving  the  little  one  in  the  cold  with  a 
diamond  of  magnitude  flashing  from  its  lowest  joint. 

"  Euchred  ?  "  this  gentleman  simply  asked,  in  a  nasal 
tone  of  immense  mirth. 

"  If  you  mean  do  I  know  you,  I  don't,"  said  Dick, 
only  a  degree  less  haughtily  than  if  he  had  come 
straight  from  Oxford  instead  of  from  the  bush. 

"  What !  you  don't  remember  me  ? "  exclaimed  the 
man  more  explicitly,  his  fingers  itching  to  leap  from 
the  waistcoat-pocket. 

66 


South  Kensington 


Dick  stared  an  uncompromising  denial. 

The  diamond  flashed  in  his  eyes,  and  a  small  piece 
of  pasteboard  was  held  in  front  of  him,  on  which  were 
engraved  these  words; 

"  The  Hon.  Stephen  Biggs." 

Dick  repressed  an  insane  impulse  to  explode  with 
laughter. 

"  What !  of  Marshall's  Creek  ?  " 

"  The  same." 

Dick  stretched  out  his  hand, 

"  A  thousand  pardons,  my  dear  fellow ;  but  how 
could  I  expect  to  see  you  here?  And — the  Honour- 
able?" 

"  Ah !  "  said  Mr.  Biggs,  with  legitimate  pride,  "  that 
knocks  you,  old  man !  It  was  only  the  Legislative 
Assembly  when  you  and  me  was  mates ;  it's  the  Legis- 
lative Council  now.  I'm  in  the  Upper  'Ouse,  my 
son ! " 

"  I'm  sure  I  congratulate  you,"  said  Dick, 

"  But  'ang  the  'andle,"  continued  the  senator  mag- 
nanimously ;  "  call  me  Steve  just  the  same." 

"  Well,  it's  like  the  whifif  of  the  gum  leaves  to  see 
you  again,  Steve.     When  did  you  arrive  ?  " 

"  Last  week.  You  see,"  confidentially,  "  I'm  in 
my  noo  rig  out  —  the  best  your  London  can  do ; 
though,  after  all,  this  Colony'll  do  as  good  any  day 
in  the  week.  I  can't  see  where  it  is  you  do  things  bet- 
ter than  we  do.  However,  come  and  have  a  drink,  old 
man." 

In  vain  Dick  protested  that  he  was  not  thirsty ;  Mr, 
Biggs  was.  Besides,  bushmen  are  not  to  be  denied 
or  trifled  with  on  such  points.    The  little  man  seized 

67 


At  Large 


Dick's  arm,  marched  him  to  the  nearest  bar,  and  called 
for  beer. 

"  Ah !  "  sighed  Mr.  Biggs,  setting  down  his  tankard, 
"  this  is  the  one  point  where  the  Old  Country  licks  us. 
This  Colony  can't  come  within  a  looee  of  you  with  the 
beer,  and  I'm  the  first  to  own  it !  We  kep'  nothing 
like  this  at  my  place  on  the  Murray,  now  did  we?  " 

Dick  was  forced  to  shake  his  head,  for,  in  fact,  the 
Honourable  Stephen  had  formerly  kept  a  flourishing 
"  hotel  "  on  the  Murray,  where  the  Colonial  beer  had 
been  no  better  than — other  Colonial  beer — a  brew  with 
a  bad  name.  Dick  observed  an  odd  habit  Mr.  Biggs 
had  of  referring  to  his  native  heath  as  though  he  were 
still  on  it,  speaking  of  his  country  as  he  would  have 
spoken  of  it  out  there — as  "  this  Colony." 

The  Honourable  Steve  now  insisted  on  tacking  him- 
self on  to  Dick,  and  they  roamed  the  Exhibition  to- 
gether. Biggs  talked  volubly  of  his  impressions  of 
England  and  the  English  (he  had  crowded  a  great  deal 
into  his  first  few  days,  and  had  already  "  done  "  half 
London),  of  the  Exhibition,  of  being  feted  by  the 
flower  of  Britain  and  fed  on  the  fat  of  the  land ;  and 
though  his  English  was  scarcely  impeccable  a  vein  of 
shrewd  common  sense  ran  through  his  observations 
which  was  as  admirable  in  the  man  (he  had  risen  very 
rapidly  even  for  Australia)  as  it  was  characteristic  of 
his  class. 

"  By-the-bye,"  said  Mr.  Biggs,  after  they  had  freely 
criticised  the  romantic  group  of  blacks  and  fauna  in  the 
South  Australian  Court,  "  have  you  seen  the  Hut  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Dick. 

"  Then  come  on ;  it's  the  best  thing  in  the  whole 
68 


South  Kensington 


show ;  and,"  dropping  his  voice  mysteriously,  "  there's 
the  rummest  go  there  you  ever  saw  in  your  life." 

Everybody  remembers  the  Settler's  Hut.  It  was  a 
most  realistic  property,  with  its  strips  of  bark  and  its 
bench  and  wash-basin,  though  some  bushmen  were 
heard  to  deny  below  their  breath  the  existence  of  any 
hut  so  spick  and  span  "  where  they  come  from." 

"  Good ! "  said  Dick,  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  Hut. 
"  That's  the  real  thing,  if  you  Hke." 

"  Half  a  shake,"  said  Mr.  Biggs,  "  and  I'll  show  you 
something  realler."  He  drew  Dick  to  the  window  of 
the  hut.  "  Look  there ! "  he  whispered,  pointing 
within. 

Three  or  four  persons  were  inspecting  the  interior, 
and  debating  aloud  as  to  how  they  personally  should 
care  to  live  in  such  a  place ;  and  each,  as  he  surveyed 
the  rude  walls,  the  huge  fireplace,  the  primitive  cook- 
ing utensils,  reserved  his  most  inquisitive  scrutiny  for 
an  oddly-dressed  man  who  sat  motionless  and  silent  on 
the  low  bank,  as  though  the  Hut  belonged  to  him.  A 
more  colourable  inference  would  have  been  that  the 
man  belonged  to  the  Hut;  and  in  that  case  he  must 
have  been  admitted  the  most  picturesque  exhibit  in  the 
Colonial  Courts,  as  he  looked  the  most  genuine ;  for 
the  man  was  dressed  in  the  simple  mode  of  an  Aus- 
tralian stockman,  and  looked  the  part  from  the  thin 
soles  of  his  plain  side-spring  boots  to  the  crown  of  his 
cabbage-tree  hat.  From  under  the  broad  brim  of  the 
latter  a  pair  of  quick,  dark  eyes  played  restlessly 
among  the  people  who  passed  in  and  out,  or  thronged 
the  door  of  the  hut.  His  shoulders  were  bent,  and 
his  head  habitually  thrust  forward,  so  that  it  was  im- 

69 


At  Large 


possible,  in  the  half-light,  to  clearly  make  out  the  feat- 
ures ;  but  long,  iron-gray  locks  fell  over  the  collar  of 
his  coarse  tweed  coat,  and  a  bushy,  pepper-and-salt 
beard  hid  the  throat  and  the  upper  portion  of  the  chest. 
Old  though  the  man  undoubtedly  was,  his  massive 
frame  suggested  muscularity  that  must  once  have  been 
enormous,  and  must  still  be  considerable. 

"  Now,  what  do  you  think  of  that  cove  ?  "  inquired 
the  Hon.  Stephen  Biggs  in  a  stage  whisper. 

"  Why,"  said  Dick,  who  was  frowning  in  a  puzzled 
manner,  "  he  looks  the  real  thing  too.  I  suppose 
that's  what  he's  there  for.    Now,  I  wonder  where " 

"  Ah,  but  it  ain't  that,"  broke  in  Biggs,  "  I've  been 
here  every  day,  almost,  and  when  I  see  him  here  every 
day,  too,  I  soon  found  out  he  don't  belong  to  the  place. 
No ;  he's  an  ordinary  customer,  who  pays  his  bob 
every  morning  when  the  show  opens,  and  stays  till 
closing-time.  He's  to  be  seen  all  over  the  Exhibition, 
but  generally  at  the  Hut  —  most  always  about  the 
Hut." 

"  Well,  if  he  isn't  paid  for  it,  what  on  earth  is  his 
object  ?  "  said  Dick,  as  they  moved  away. 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Biggs  darkly,  "  I  have  a  notion  of 
my  own  about  that,  though  some  of  the  people  that 
belong  to  this  here  place  share  it  with  me." 

"And?"  said  Dick. 

"  And,"  said  Mr.  Biggs  with  emphasis,  "  in  my 
opinion  the  fellow's  the  dead  spit  of  a  detective ;  what's 
more,  you  may  take  your  Colonial  oath  he  is  one !  " 

"  Well,"  said  Dick  coolly,  "  I've  seen  him  before, 
though  I  can't  tell  where.  I  remember  his  bulk  and 
shape  better  than  his  face." 

70 


South  Kensington 

"  Yes  ?  By  Jove,  my  boy,  you  may  be  the  very  man 
he's  after !  " 

Mr.  Biggs  burst  into  a  loud  guffaw;  then  turned 
grave  in  a  moment,  and  repeated  impressively :  "  A 
detective — my  oath !  " 

"  But  he  looks  a  genuine  Australian,  if  ever  I  saw 
one,"  objected  Dick. 

"  Well,  maybe  he's  what  he  looks." 

"  Then  do  you  think  he's  come  over  on  purpose  ? 
It  must  be  a  big  job." 

"  I  think  he  has.     It  must." 

"  Ah,"  said  Dick,  "  then  I  have  seen  him  out  there 
somewhere ;  probably  in  Melbourne." 

"  Quite  likely,"  said  Mr.  Biggs.  "  There  are  plenty 
of  his  sort  in  this  Colony,  and  as  sharp  as  you'll  find 
anywhere  else,  my  word !  " 

A  little  later  they  left  the  Exhibition,  and  spent  the 
evening  together. 


71 


VIII 

THE   ADMIRABLE   MILES 

If  Mr.  Miles  was  systematically  "  spoilt "  by  the 
Bristos,  he  was  more  or  less  entitled  to  the  treatment, 
since  it  is  not  every  guest  who  has  had  the  privilege 
of  saving  his  host  from  drowning.  But  Mr.  Miles 
was  in  other  ways  an  exceptional  visitor.  He  con- 
trived to  create  entertainment  instead  of  requiring  it. 
He  was  no  anxiety  to  anybody ;  he  upset  no  household 
routine ;  he  might  have  remained  for  months,  and  not 
outstayed  his  welcome ;  from  the  first  he  made  himself 
at  home  in  the  most  agreeable  fashion.  In  a  word,  he 
was  a  very  charming  man. 

Moreover,  he  was  unUke  other  men:  he  was  far 
more  independent,  and  far  less  conventional.  It  was 
impossible  to  measure  him  by  a  commonplace  stand- 
ard. He  had  little  peculiarities  which  would  not  have 
recommended  other  men,  but  which  in  his  case  were 
considered  virtues :  he  was  quite  artless  in  matters  of 
etiquette.  Indeed,  he  was  a  splendid  specimen  of  free, 
ingenuous  manhood — an  ideal  Australian,  according 
to  the  notions  of  the  old  country. 

The  least  breath  against  their  guest  on  conventional 
grounds  would  have  been  indignantly  resented  by  the 
Graysbrooke  people.  They  put  upon  his  peculiarities 
an  interpretation  which  in  Mrs.  Parish's  case  resolved 
itself  into  a  formula : 

72 


The  Admirable  Miles 

"  They  are  so  free-and-easy  out  there ;  they  despise 
conventionality ;  they  are  natural.  Oh  that  we  were 
all  Australians  !  "  (Mr.  Miles  was  the  one  Australian 
of  her  acquaintance.) 

Thus  when  he  swore  unmistakably  at  a  clumsy  oars- 
man while  piloting  the  ladies  through  a  crowded  lock, 
the  offence  was  hushed  up  with  a  formula ;  and  so 
were  other  offences,  since  formulas  will  cover  any- 
thing. 

One  day  Mrs.  Parish,  going  into  the  drawing-room, 
paused  on  the  threshold  with  an  angry  sniff. 

"  Smoke — in  here !  It  is  the  very  first  time  in  all 
these  years,"  severely  to  Alice,  "  that  I  have  ever 
known  your  papa — " 

"  It  was  not  papa,  it  was  Mr.  Miles,"  said  Alice 
quietly.  "  He  walked  in  with  his  pipe,  and  I  really 
did  not  like  to  tell  him.  I  believe  he  has  gone  for 
more  tobacco," 

"  Why,  how  stupid  of  me !  Of  course,  with  Mr. 
Miles  it  is  quite  different."  (Mrs.  Parish  assumed 
an  indulgent  tone.)  "  He  is  not  used  to  such  re- 
straints. You  were  quite  right  to  say  nothing  about 
it.     He  shall  smoke  where  he  likes." 

Again  the  little  old  lady  came  to  Alice,  and  said 
very  gravely: 

"  My  dear,  did  you  notice  the  way  our  visitor  re- 
fused the  hock  this  evening?  Of  course  they  do  not 
drink  such  stuff  in  the  bush,  and  he  must  have  what 
he  is  accustomed  to.  I  will  arrange  with  Tomlin  to 
have  the  whisky  decanter  placed  quietly  in  front  of 
him  for  the  future." 

Alice,  for  her  part,  not  only  permitted  but  abetted 
73 


At  Large 


this  system  of  indulgence ;  for  she  agreed  with  Mrs. 
Parish  that  the  guest  was  a  noble  creature,  for  whose 
personal  comfort  it  was  impossible  to  show  too  much 
solicitude — which,  indeed,  was  the  least  they  could  do. 
He  had  saved  her  father's  life. 

That  incident — which  she  had  related  to  Dick  with 
a  wonderful  absence  of  feminine  exaggeration — had 
been  in  itself  enough  to  plant  in  her  heart  a  very  real 
regard  for  Mr.  Miles.  That  was  but  natural ;  but  one 
or  two  other  things  which  came  to  her  knowledge 
furthered  this  regard. 

One  Saturday  morning  in  Kingston  market-place 
Alice  met  a  bosom  friend,  who  informed  her  that  she 
had  seen  the  Graysbrooke  pleasure-boat  being  towed 
up-stream  by  a  tall  gentleman — ("  So  handsome,  my 
dear;  who  is  he?") — while  a  miserable,  half-starved 
wretch  sat  luxuriously  in  the  stern-sheets.  RalHed 
with  this,  the  Australian's  brick-dust  complexion  be- 
came a  shade  deeper.  Then  he  made  a  clean  breast 
of  the  affair,  in  his  usual  quiet  tone,  but  with  a  nearer 
approach  to  diffidence  than  he  had  yet  shown  them. 
He  had  gone  out  for  a  solitary  pull,  and  had  no  sooner 
started  than  a  cadaverous  creature  with  a  tow-rope 
pestered  him  for  a  job.  Miles  had  refused  the  man ; 
doubted  his  strength  to  tow  a  flea  with  a  silk  thread ; 
and  observed  that  he.  Miles,  was  more  fit  to  tow  the 
other,  if  it  came  to  that.  At  this.  Miles,  being  sworn 
at  for  making  game  of  a  starving  man,  had  promptly 
landed,  forced  the  man,  speechless  with  amazement, 
into  the  boat,  towed  him  to  Kingston,  and  left  him 
to  a  good  dinner,  with  some  wholesome  advice  touch- 
ing immediate  emigration. 

74 


The  Admirable  Miles 

A  few  days  later,  at  dusk  on  a  wet  afternoon,  Mrs. 
Parish,  from  her  bedroom  window,  saw  Mr.  Miles 
walk  quickly  up  the  drive  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  It 
transpired  that  he  had  given  his  coat  to  a  ragged, 
shivering  tramp  on  the  London  road — plus  the  ad- 
dress of  the  Emigration  Office. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  on  both  these  occasions,  "  I 
never  saw  anything  half  so  bad  in  my  own  country. 
If  you  aren't  used  to  it,  it  knocks  a  man's  heart  to  see 
a  poor  devil  so  far  gone  as  all  that." 

In  short,  Mr.  Miles  exhibited  to  the  Bristos,  on  sev- 
eral occasions,  a  propensity  to  odd  and  impulsive  gen- 
erosity ;  and  the  point  told  considerably  in  their  gen- 
eral regard  for  the  man,  which  day  by  day  grew  more 
profound. 

Among  other  peculiarities,  so  excellently  appreci- 
ated, Mr.  Miles  had  a  singular  manner  of  speaking. 
It  was  an  eminently  calm  manner;  but  for  the  ring 
of  quiet  audacity  in  every  tone,  it  might  have  been 
called  a  subdued  manner.  He  never  raised  his  voice ; 
he  never  spoke  with  heat.  When  he  said  to  Colonel 
Bristo,  clinging  to  him  in  the  sea,  "  If  you  hang  on 
like  that  I  must  fell  you,"  his  tone  was  as  smooth  as 
when  he  afterwards  apologised  for  the  threat.  When 
he  paid  Alice  his  first  compliment  he  did  so  without 
the  smallest  hesitation,  and  in  his  ordinary  tone ;  and 
his  compliments  were  of  the  most  direct  order.  They 
once  heard  him  threaten  to  thrash  a  bargee  for  ill- 
treating  a  horse,  and  they  were  amazed  when  the  man 
sulkily  desisted ;  the  threat  was  so  gently  and  dispas- 
sionately uttered.  As  for  his  adventures,  they  were 
told  with  so  much  of  detail  and  gravity  that  the  man- 

75 


At  Large 


ner  carried  conviction  where  the  matter  was  most 
fantastic.  Miles  was  the  best  of  "  good  company." 
Apart  from  the  supreme  service  rendered  to  him,  Col- 
onel Bristo  was  fully  persuaded  that  he  was  entertain- 
ing the  best  fellow  in  the  world.  Add  to  this  that  Mrs. 
Parish  adored  the  handsome  Australian,  while  Alice 
meekly  revered  him,  and  it  will  be  easily  seen  that  a 
hostile  opinion  of  their  hero  was  well  calculated  to 
recoil  on  its  advocate. 

During  the  short  period  in  which  the  hero  was  also 
the  stranger,  he  spent  all  his  time  in  the  Colonel's  soci- 
ety. Apparently  the  two  men  found  many  subjects 
of  mutual  interest.  Once,  when  AHce  interrupted 
them  in  the  study,  Mr.  Miles  seemed  to  be  eloquently 
enumerating  the  resources  and  capabilities  of  some  re- 
mote district  of  the  Antipodes ;  for  though  she  spent 
some  minutes  getting  a  book,  he  took  no  notice  of  her 
presence  in  the  room.  On  another  occasion  AHce  saw 
her  father  examining  a  kind  of  map  or  plan,  while  Mr. 
Miles  bent  over  him  in  explanation.  She  afterwards 
learnt  that  this  was  a  plan  of  the  Queensland  station 
of  which  Mr.  Miles  was  part  owner. 

After  the  first  day  or  two  it  seemed  evident  that  Mr. 
Miles  disliked  the  society  of  ladies. 

On  the  third  evening,  however,  the  men  patronised 
the  drawing-room  for  half-an-hour,  and  the  Colonel 
asked  Alice  to  sing  something.  She  sang,  and  Mr. 
Miles  listened.  When  she  had  finished,  Mr.  Miles 
coolly  asked  her  to  sing  again.  The  lollowmg  night 
he  extracted  three  songs  from  her.  Then  Mr.  Miles 
began  to  spend  less  time  in  his  host's  sanctum.  He 
cultivated  Alice ;  he  interested  himself  in  her  amuse- 

76 


The  Admirable  Miles 

ments — photography  for  one;  he  got  her  to  sing  to 
him  in  the  daytime.     He  was  civil  to  Mrs.  Parish. 

When  the  young  lady  sat  down  to  the  piano,  this 
sun-burned  Apollo  did  not  hang  over  her,  as  other 
men  did  (when  they  got  the  chance) ;  nor  did  he  turn 
over  a  bar  too  soon  or  too  late — like  the  others.  He 
made  no  pretence  of  polite  assistance,  not  he.  But 
he  flung  himself  in  a  chair,  threw  back  his  head,  and 
drank  in  every  note.  At  first  it  was  generally  with 
his  back  to  the  piano,  and  always  with  closed  eyes. 
Then  he  found  another  chair — one  a  little  further 
away,  but  so  placed  that  the  girl's  profile  was  stamped 
like  a  silhouette  on  the  sunlit  window,  directly  in  his 
line  of  vision.  And  he  no  longer  listened  with  closed 
eyelids. 

Mrs.  Parish,  a  keen  observer,  hovered  about  during 
these  performances,  and  noted  these  things.  She  had 
perceived  at  the  time  the  impression  Alice's  first  song 
made  upon  Mr.  Miles :  she  saw  that  he  had  regarded 
the  girl  from  that  moment  with  a  newly  awakened 
interest.  Thenceforth  he  had  made  himself  agreeable 
to  both  ladies,  whereas  before  he  had  ignored  them 
both.  Now,  although  she  knew  well  enough  that 
Miles's  attentions,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  could 
be  but  politic,  yet  such  was  the  inveterate  vanity  of  this 
elderly  duenna  that  she  derived  therefrom  no  small 
personal  gratification.  An  impudent  compHment 
thrilled  her  as  it  might  have  thrilled  a  schoolgirl.  But 
this  did  not  prevent  her  seeing  what  was  really  going 
on,  nor  secretly  rejoicing  at  what  she  saw. 

She  watched  the  pair  together  from  the  first.  She 
watched  the  girl  innocently  betray  her  veneration  for 


At  Large 


the  man  who  had  saved  her  father's  life.  She  knew 
that  it  is  perilous  for  a  man  to  see  that  a  girl  thinks 
him  a  hero,  and  she  awaited  results.  She  soon  fancied 
that  she  saw  some.  She  thought  that  Miles's  habitual 
insouciance  was  a  trifle  less  apparent  when  he  con- 
versed with  Alice ;  certainly  his  eyes  began  to  follow 
her  and  rest  upon  her ;  for  Mr.  Miles  did  such  things 
openly.  But  she  detected  no  corresponding  symp- 
toms in  AHce ;  so  one  day  she  told  her  bluntly :  "  Mr. 
Miles  is  falling  in  love  with  you,  child." 

Alice  was  startled,  and  coloured  with  simple  annoy- 
ance. 

"  What  nonsense !  "  she  said  indignantly. 

Immediately  she  thought  of  the  absent  Dick,  and 
her  blush  deepened — because  she  thought  of  him  so 
seldom.  Mrs.  Parish  replied  that  it  was  not  non- 
sense, but,  instead  of  urging  proofs  in  support  of  her 
statement,  contented  herself  with  cataloguing  Mr. 
Miles's  kingly  attributes.  Here  Alice  could  not  con- 
tradict her.  The  old  lady  even  spoke  of  the  station 
in  Queensland  and  the  house  at  Sydney.  Encouraged 
by  the  girl's  silence,  however,  she  overshot  the  mark 
with  a  parallel  reference — and  not  a  kind  one — to  Dick 
Edmonstone.  She  saw  her  mistake  at  once,  but  too 
late ;  without  a  word  AHce  turned  coldly  from  her,  and 
they  barely  exchanged  civilities  during  the  rest  of  that 
day. 

From  that  moment  Miss  Bristo's  manner  towards 
Mr.  Miles  was  changed.  Mrs.  Parish  had  put  into 
her  head  a  thought  that  had  never  once  occurred  to 
her.  An  innocent  pleasure  was  poisoned  for  her. 
She  did  not  quite  give  up  the  songs,  and  the  rest,  but 

78 


The  Admirable  Miles 

she  became  self-conscious,  and  developed  a  sudden 
preference  for  that  society  which  is  said  to  be  no  com- 
pany at  all. 

At  this  juncture  the  ship  Hesper  entered  the  Chan- 
nel, and  was  duly  reported  in  the  newspapers.  Alice 
saw  the  announcement,  and  knew  that  in  two  or  three 
days  she  should  see  her  lover.  These  days  she  spent 
in  thought. 

At  seventeen  she  had  been  madly  in  love  with  young 
Edmonstone  —  what  is  called  a  "  romantic "  or 
"  school-girl  "  aflfair — chiefly  sentimental  on  her  side, 
terribly  earnest  on  his.  At  eighteen — parted  many 
months  from  a  sweetheart  from  whom  she  never 
heard,  and  beginning  to  think  of  him  daily  instead  of 
hourly — she  asked  herself  whether  this  was  really  love. 
At  nineteen,  it  was  possible  to  get  through  a  day — 
days,  even — without  devoting  sentimental  minutes  to 
the  absent  one.  Alice  was  at  least  madly  in  love  no 
longer.  There  remained  a  very  real  regard  for  Dick, 
a  constant  prayer  for  his  welfare,  a  doubt  as  to  whether 
he  would  ever  come  home  again,  a  wondering  (if  he 
did)  whether  she  could  ever  be  the  same  to  him  again, 
or  he  to  her;  nothing  more. 

Mrs.  Parish  was  in  a  great  measure  responsible  for 
all  this.  That  excellent  woman  had  predicted  from 
the  first  that  Dick  would  never  make  his  fortune  (it 
was  not  done  nowadays),  and  that  he  would  never 
come  back.  Another  factor  was  the  ripening  of  her 
understanding,  aided  by  a  modicum  of  worldly  experi- 
ence which  came  to  her  at  first-hand.  Alice  was 
honoured  with  two  proposals  of  marriage,  and  in  each 
case  the  rejected  (both  were  wife-hunting)  consoled 

79 


At  Large 


himself  elsewhere  within  three  months.  To  this 
groundwork  Mrs.  Parish  added  some  judicious  facts 
from  her  own  experience ;  and  this  old  lady  happened 
to  be  the  girl's  only  confidante  and  adviser.  Alice 
gathered  that,  though  man's  honour  might  be  a  stead- 
fast rock,  his  love  was  but  a  shifting  sand.  Thus 
there  were  such  things  as  men  marrying  where  they 
had  ceased  to  love ;  thus  Dick  might  return  and  pro- 
fess love  for  her  which  was  no  longer  sincere. 

In  the  end  Miss  Bristo  was  left,  like  many  other 
young  ladies,  with  an  imperfect  knowledge  of  her  own 
mind,  and  attempted,  unlike  most  young  ladies,  to 
mould  her  doubts  into  a  definite  and  logical  form. 
She  did  arrive  at  a  conclusion — when  she  learned  that 
Dick  was  nearly  home.  This  conclusion  was,  that, 
whatever  happened,  there  must  be  no  immediate  en- 
gagement: she  did  not  know  whether  Dick  loved  her 
still — she  was  not  absolutely  sure  that  she  still  loved 
him. 

We  have  seen  how  she  communicated  her  decision 
to  Dick.  His  manifest  agony  when  he  heard  it  sent 
a  thrill  through  her  heart — a  thrill  that  recalled  the 
old  romance.  The  manly  way  in  which  he  afterwards 
accepted  his  fate  touched  her  still  more.  She  began 
to  think  that  she  might  after  all  have  mistaken  herself 
of  late ;  and  this  notion  would  probably  have  become 
a  conviction  but  for  one  circumstance — the  presence 
of  Mr.  Miles. 

Dick  was  jealous :  she  saw  it,  or  thought  she  saw 
it,  from  the  first.  This  vexed  her,  and  she  had  not 
bargained  to  be  vexed  by  Dick.  It  made  her  more 
than  half-inclined  to  give  him  something  to  be  jealous 

80 


The  Admirable  Miles 

of.  Accordingly  she  was  once  or  twice  so  malicious 
as  to  throw  Mr.  Miles  in  his  teeth  in  their  conversa- 
tions, and  watch  the  effect.  And  the  effect  did  not 
please  her. 

On  the  other  hand,  about  Mr.  Miles  there  was  no 
particle  of  jealousy  (one  thing  more  to  his  credit). 
Why,  he  had  asked  with  the  greatest  interest  all  about 
Dick,  after  he  had  gone  that  first  evening;  and  her 
answers  had  been  most  circumspect :  she  had  let  him 
suppose  that  Dick  was  a  squatter  during  his  whole 
term  in  Australia.  After  that  Mr.  Miles  had  asked  no 
more.  But  Dick  had  never  asked  one  word  about 
Mr.  Miles  until  he  had  been  in  England  a  fortnight, 
and  then  he  offended  her  deeply.  Up  to  that  point 
her  interest  in  Dick  had  been  gradually  growing  more 
tender;  she  felt  him  to  be  true  and  brave,  and  hon- 
oured him ;  and  contrasted  her  own  fickleness  with 
his  honest  worth.  Once  or  twice  she  felt  a  longing  to 
make  him  happy.  Even  as  she  felt  herself  irresistibly 
bowed  down  before  him  her  idol  fell.  From  this  man, 
whom  she  was  learning  to  truly  love,  came  a  mean, 
unmanly  suggestion.  To  further  his  progress  with 
her  he  stooped  to  slander  the  man  whom  he  was 
pleased  to  consider  his  rival,  and  that  rival  the 
noblest,  the  most  generous  of  men. 

She  could  not  easily  forgive  this;  she  could  never 
forget  it,  and  never  think  quite  the  same  of  Dick 
afterwards.  And  then  the  conduct  of  the  other  one 
was  so  different!  Her  manner  instinctively  warmed 
towards  Mr.  Miles :  she  should  be  his  champion 
through  thick  and  thin.  As  for  Dick,  after  that  little 
scene,  he  did  not  come  near  Graysbrooke  for  a  week. 

8i 


At  Large 


Now,  during-  that  week,  the  words  that  had  offended 
her  recurred  many  times  to  AHce.  The  pale,  earnest, 
honest  face  with  which  Dick  had  uttered  them  also 
rose  in  her  mind.  Was  it  possible  that  his  suspicion 
could  be  absolutely  groundless?  Was  it  not  credible 
that  he  might  have  reasons  for  speaking — mistaken 
ones,  of  course — which  he  could  not  reveal  to  her? 
In  any  case,  his  words  rankled;  and  so  much  sting 
is  seldom  left  by  words  which  we  have  already  dis- 
missed, once  and  for  all,  as  utterly  and  entirely  false. 

During  that  week,  moreover,  there  occurred  a  friv- 
olous incident,  of  which  Alice  would  have  thought 
nothing  before  the  expression  of  Dick's  suspicions 
but  which  now  puzzled  her  sorely.  One  brilliant  after- 
noon she  found  herself  completely  indolent.  She 
wandered  idly  into  the  garden,  and  presently  came 
upon  a  rather  droll  sight:  her  father  and  Mr.  Miles, 
sound  asleep,  side  by  side,  in  a  couple  of  basket-chairs 
under  the  shade  of  a  weeping  willow.  The  girl  con- 
ceived a  happy  roguery :  what  a  subject  for  a  photo- 
graph! She  stole  into  the  house  for  her  camera. 
When  she  returned,  her  father  was  gone.  She  was 
disappointed,  hesitated  a  few  moments,  and  then 
coolly  photographed  the  still  unconscious  Mr.  Miles. 
An  hour  later  she  greeted  him  with  the  negative — an 
excellent  one. 

"  You  said  you  had  never  been  taken,"  said  she 
mischievously.  "  Well,  here  is  your  first  portrait.  It 
will  be  capital." 

He  asked  to  look  at  it,  in  his  quiet  way.  Alice 
handed  him  the  dripping  glass.  He  had  no  sooner 
held  it  up  to  the  light  than  it  slipped  through  his 

82 


The  Admirable  Miles 

fingers,  and  broke  into  a  dozen  fragments  upon  the 
gravel  path. 

Mr.  Miles  apologised  coldly,  and  proceeded  to  pick 
up  the  pieces  with  a  provoking  smile.  Alice  was 
irate,  and  accused  him  of  breaking  her  negative  pur- 
posely. Mr.  Miles  repHed  with  charming  candour  that 
he  had  never  been  photographed  in  his  life,  and  never 
meant  to  be.  Already  blaming  herself  for  having 
yielded  to  a  silly  impulse,  and  one  which  was  even 
open  to  wrong  construction,  Alice  said  no  more ;  and 
presently,  when  the  Australian  gravely  begged  her 
forgiveness,  it  was  granted  with  equal  gravity.  Never- 
theless she  was  puzzled.  Why  should  Mr.  Miles  so 
dread  a  photograph  of  himself?  What  had  he  to  fear? 
Would  Dick  add  this  to  his  little  list  of  suspicious  cir- 
cumstances ?  If  he  did,  it  would  be  the  first  item  not 
utterly  absurd.    What  if  she  were  to  tell  him,  and  see ! 

As  it  happened,  Dick  called  the  very  next  day,  a 
Wednesday,  and  the  last  day  in  June.  Alice  received 
him  coldly.  There  was  a  natural  restraint  on  both 
sides,  but  she  thawed  before  he  went.  As  he  was  say- 
ing good-bye,  she  asked  him  (casually)  if  he  would 
come  on  Friday  afternoon — the  day  of  her  dance — 
and  help  with  the  floor  and  things.  She  really  wished 
him  to  come  very  much,  for  she  foresaw  an  oppor- 
tunity for  explanation,  without  which  the  evening 
would  be  a  misery  to  her;  besides,  they  could  talk 
over  Mr.  Miles  fairly  and  confidentially.  Dick  jumped 
at  it,  poor  fellow,  brightened  up  at  once,  and  walked 
home  a  happier  man. 

The  following  day  Alice  accompanied  her  father  to 
town,  on  pleasure  bent.    The  little  jaunt  had   been 

83 


At  Large 


long   arranged,   and   Mr.    Miles   was    their    efficient 
escort. 

That  was  on  Thursday,  July  ist. 

Unfortunately  for  Mr.  Biggs,  M.L.C.,  he  could  not 
spend  all  his  days  at  the  Exhibition,  so  that  a  certain 
little  drama,  not  widely  differing  from  that  astute 
legislator's  preconception,  was  at  last  played  to  an 
altogether  unappreciative  house.    The  facts  are  these : 

About  four  in  the  afternoon,  an  old  gentleman, 
with  snowy  whiskers  and  hair,  and  with  a  very 
charming  girl  upon  his  arm,  looked  into  the  Settler's 
Hut.  They  did  not  remain  within  above  ten  seconds ; 
but  during  those  ten  seconds  the  genus  loci — who 
was  in  his  customary  place  on  the  bunk — heard  a 
voice  without  which  caused  him  to  start,  pull  the 
brim  of  his  cabbage-tree  hat  further  over  his  eyes,  and 
draw  a  long  breath  through  his  teeth. 

"  I  won't  come  in,"  said  this  voice,  which  was  low 
and  unconcerned;  "I've  seen  it  before;  besides,  I 
know  the  kind  of  thing  rather  too  well." 

The  shadows  of  the  old  gentleman  and  the  girl  had 
hardly  disappeared  from  the  threshold  when  the  man 
in  the  cabbage-tree  hat  and  side-spring  boots  rose 
swiftly,  and  peered  stealthily  after  them.  What  he 
saw  caused  him  to  smile  with  malignant  triumph.  A 
tall,  well-dressed  man  walked  beside  the  old  gentle- 
man and  his  daughter. 

The  watcher  allowed  them  to  pass  almost  out  of 
sight,  then  followed  warily.  He  followed  them  all 
the  afternoon,  keeping  so  far  behind,  and  dodging 
so  cleverly,  that  they  never  saw  him.  When  the  trio 
at  length  quitted  the  building  and  took  a  cab,  this 

84 


The  Admirable  Miles 

man  followed  through  the  streets  at  a  double.  He 
followed  them  to  Waterloo.  He  got  into  the  same 
train  with  them.  They  got  out  at  a  station  on  the 
loop  line ;  he  got  out  also,  paid  his  fare  to  the  ticket 
collector,  and  once  more  dogged  his  quarry.  An 
hour  later  the  cabbage-tree  hat  was  attracting  atten- 
tion on  that  same  suburban  platform ;  later  still  the 
occupants  of  a  third-class  smoking  carriage  in  an  up 
train  thought  that  they  had  never  before  seen  such  an 
evil  expression  as  that  which  the  broad  brim  of  the 
cabbage-tree  hat  only  partially  concealed. 
This  also  was  on  the  ist  of  July. 


85 


IX 

A  DANCING  LESSON  AND  ITS  CONSEQUENCES 

To  enter  a  cricket-field  in  mid-winter  and  a  ball- 
room at  midday  are  analogous  trials,  and  serious  ones 
to  enthusiasts  in  either  arena ;  but  the  former  is  a  less 
depressing  sight  in  January  than  in  December,  while 
there  is  something  even  inspiriting  about  a  ball-room 
the  day  before  the  dance. 

When,  quite  early  in  the  afternoon,  Alice  slipped 
unobserved  into  the  cool  and  empty  dining-room,  her 
cheeks  glowed,  her  eyes  sparkled,  and  the  hard  boards 
yielded  like  air  beneath  her  airy  feet.  She  shut  the 
door  quietly,  though  with  an  elbow;  her  hands  were 
full.  She  carried  two  long  wax  candles  that  knew  no 
flame,  two  gleaming  dinner-knives,  and  a  pair  of 
scissors.  These  were  deposited  on  a  chair — provi- 
sionally— while  the  young  lady  inspected  the  floor 
with  critical  gaze. 

She  frowned — the  floor  was  far  from  perfect.  She 
slid  out  one  small  foot,  as  if  trying  dubious  ice — yes, 
most  imperfect.  The  other  foot  followed;  it  would 
be  impossible  to  dance  on  a  floor  like  this.  Next 
instant  the  lie  was  given  to  this  verdict  by  the  judge 
herself,  for  Miss  Bristo  was  skimming  like  a  swallow 
round  the  room. 

86 


A  Dancing  Lesson 

Would  you  see  a  graceful  maiden  at  her  best? 
Then  watch  her  dancing.  Would  you  behold  her 
most  sweet?  Then  catch  her  unawares — if  you  can. 
Most  graceful  and  most  sweet,  then — I  admit  that  the 
combination  is  a  rare  one,  but  she  should  be  dancing 
all  alone ;  for,  alas !  the  ballroom  has  its  mask,  and  the 
dual  dance  its  trammels. 

In  this  instance  it  was  only  that  Alice  desired  to 
try  the  floor,  and  to  assure  herself  that  her  feet  had 
lost  none  of  their  cunning ;  and  only  once  round. 
No,  twice ;  for,  after  all,  the  floor  was  not  so  very 
bad,  while  the  practice  was  very  good,  and — the  sen- 
sation was  delicious.  Yet  a  third  round — a  last  one — 
with  quickened  breath  and  heightened  colour,  and 
supple  curves  and  feet  more  nimble,  and  a  summer 
gown  like  a  silver  cloud,  now  floating  in  the  wake  of 
the  pliant  form,  now  clinging  tenderly  as  she  swiftly 
turned.    And  none  to  see  her ! 

What,  none? 

As  AHce  came  to  an  abrupt  pause  in  front  of  her 
cutlery  and  candles,  a  deep  soft  voice  said,  "  Bravo !  " 

She  looked  quickly  up,  and  the  base  of  a  narrow 
open  window  at  the  end  of  the  room  was  filled  by  a 
pair  of  broad  shoulders ;  and  well  set  up  on  the  shoul- 
ders was  a  handsome,  leonine  face,  with  a  blond  beard 
and  a  pair  of  bold,  smiling  eyes. 

"  Bravo,  Miss  Bristo !  " 

"Well,  really,  Mr.  Miles—" 

"  Now  don't  be  angry — you  can't  be  so  unreason- 
able. I  was  out  here ;  I  saw  something  white  and 
dazzling  pass  the  window  twice ;  and  the  third  time 
I  thought  I'd  see  what  it  was.     I  came  and  looked, 

87 


At  Large 


and  thought  it  was  an  angel  turned  deserter,  and 
dancing  for  joy  to  be  on  earth  again !  There  was  no 
harm  in  that,  was  there  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  of  harm  in  compliments," 
said  Alice  severely ;  "  especially  when  they  are  wicked 
as  well  as  rude." 

Mr.  Miles  smiled  up  at  her  through  the  window, 
completely  unabashed. 

"  I  forgot.  Of  course  it  was  rude  to  liken  you  to 
gods  I  never  saw,  and  never  hope  to  see.  Forgive 
me!" 

But  Alice  was  thinking  that  her  freak  required  a 
word  of  explanation. 

"  I  was  only  just  trying  the  floor,"  she  said.  "  I 
never  dreamt  that  anyone  would  be  so  mean  as  to 
watch  me." 

"  Unfortunately  one  can't  learn  from  merely  watch- 
ing," Mr.  Miles  replied,  quietly  raising  himself  upon 
the  sill.  "  You  surely  haven't  forgotten  the  lesson 
you  promised  to  give  me?" — swinging  his  legs  into 
the  room — "  I  claim  that  lesson  now."  He  towered 
above  her,  a  column  of  gray  tweed,  his  arms  folded 
lightly  across  his  massive  chest. 

The  window  by  which  Miles  entered  was  five  feet 
above  the  river  lawn,  and  one  of  three  at  that  end  of 
the  room — the  other  walls  had  none.  Standing  with 
one's  back  to  these  windows,  the  door  was  on  the 
right  hand  side,  and,  facing  it,  a  double  door  commu- 
nicating with  the  conservatory.  Before  this  double 
door,  which  was  ajar,  hung  a  heavy  curtain,  await- 
ing adjustment  for  the  evening. 

"  I  did  not  ask  you  in,"  remarked  Alice  with  some 
88 


A   Dancing  Lesson 

indignation.  It  was  just  like  Mr,  Miles,  this ;  and  for 
once  he  really  was  not  wanted. 

"  Unfortunately,  no ;  you  forced  me  to  ask  myself. 
But  about  the  lesson  ?  You  know  I  never  danced  in 
my  life ;  am  I  to  disgrace  my  country  to-night  ?" 

"  You  should  have  come  to  me  this  morning." 

"  You  were — cooking,  I  believe." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Miles !    Then  yesterday." 

"  We  were  all  in  town.  Now  do  be  the  angel  you 
looked  a  minute  since.  Miss  Bristo,  and  show  me  the 
ropes.  It  won't  take  you  ten  minutes;  I  assure  you 
I'm  a  quick  learner.  Why,  if  it's  time  you  grudge, 
we  have  wasted  ten  minutes  already,  talking  about 
it." 

Impudence  could  no  higher  climb;  but  Mr.  Miles 
was  not  as  other  men  are — at  least,  not  in  this  house. 
There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  give  in,  show  him 
the  rudiments,  and  get  rid  of  them  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible ;  for  Dick  might  arrive  at  any  moment. 

"  Ten  minutes  is  all  I  shall  give  you,  then.  Atten- 
tion !  One,  two,  three ;  one,  two,  three ;  so !  Can  you 
doit?" 

Of  course  he  could  not,  after  a  niggardly  example 
of  half-a-dozen  steps :  he  did  not  try ;  he  insisted  on 
her  waltzing  once  right  round  the  room  very  slowly. 

"  Then  it  is  your  last  chance,"  exclaimed  Alice, 
"  Now  watch :  you  begfin  so :  one — a  long  one,  re- 
member— then  two,  three — little  quick  ones.  Now 
try.  No,  you  needn't  hft  your  feet;  you  are  not 
stamping  for  an  encore,  Mr.  Miles.  It  is  all  done  by 
sUding,  like  this.     Now,  try  again." 

Miles  bent  his  six  feet  three  into  five  feet  nothing, 
89 


At  Large 


and  slid  gravely  round  with  an  anxious  watch  upon 
his  feet. 

"  Why,  you  are  bent  double,"  cried  Miss  Bristo, 
sharply ;  "  and,  let  me  tell  you,  you  will  never  learn 
while  you  look  at  your  feet." 

Miles  stopped  short. 

"  Then  how  am  I  to  learn  ?"  he  asked,  gazing  help- 
lessly at  his  instructress. 

Alice  burst  out  laughing. 

"  You  had  better  lock  yourself  in  your  room  and 
practise  hard  until  evening.  The  ten  minutes  are  up ; 
but  you  have  exactly  six  hours  and  twenty-nine  min- 
utes before  you,  if  you  make  haste." 

"  Well,  you  shall  suffer  if  I  cut  a  poor  figure  to- 
night, Miss  Bristo,  and  it  will  serve  you  right,  for  I 
intend  to  have  my  share  of  your  dances." 

"  That  remains  to  be  seen,"  said  Alice  tritely. 

"  Stay,  though,"  said  Miles,  drawing  himself  up  to 
the  last  of  his  seventy-five  inches,  and  speaking  in 
that  smooth,  matter-of-fact  tone  that  ushered  in  his 
most  astounding  audacities,  "  suppose  we  two  try — 
in  double  harness — now?" 

"  Mr.  Miles !  " 

"  Miss  Bristo,  I  am  sure  I  should  get  on  a  thousand 
times  better.  Is  it  so  very  much  to  ask?"  he  added 
humbly — for  him. 

The  inner  Alice  echoed  the  question:  Was  it  so 
very  much  to  ask — or  to  grant  ?  The  answer  came  at 
once :  To  anyone  else,  yes ;  to  Mr.  Miles,  no ;  grave, 
heroic,  middle-aged  Mr.  Miles !  With  a  mighty  show 
of  condescension,  Miss  Bristo  agreed  to  one  round, 
and  not  a  step  more.    She  would  not  have  been  called 

90 


A  Dancing  Lesson 

prude  for  the  world ;  but  unluckily,  prudery  and  pru- 
dence so  often  go  hand  in  hand. 

The  two  went  whirling  round  the  empty  room. 
Before  they  were  half-way  round,  Alice  exclaimed: 

"  You  have  cheated ;  never  danced,  indeed !" 

He  murmured  that  it  was  so  many  years  ago,  he 
thought  he  had  forgotten.  Having  thus  discovered 
that  she  could  teach  her  pupil  nothing,  it  was  Alice's 
plain  duty  to  stop;  but  this  she  forgot  to  do.  Mr. 
Miles,  for  his  part,  said  not  a  word,  but  held  her 
firmly.  He,  in  fact,  waltzed  better  than  any  man  she 
had  ever  danced  with.  Two  rounds — three — six — 
without  a  word. 

Even  if  they  had  not  been  dancing  they  might  have 
failed  to  hear  a  buoyant  footstep  that  entered  the 
conservatory  at  this  time ;  for  the  worst  of  an  in- 
dia-rubber sole  is  the  catlike  tread  that  it  gives  the 
most  artless  wearer.  But  it  was  an  unfortunate  cir- 
cumstance that  they  did  just  then  happen  to  be 
dancing. 

There  is  no  excuse  for  Miss  Bristo,  that  I  know  of. 
Pleas  of  faulty  training  or  simplicity  within  her  years 
would,  one  feels,  be  futile.  Without  doubt  she  be- 
haved as  the  girl  of  this  period  is  not  intended  to 
behave ;  let  her  be  blamed  accordingly.  She  did  not 
go  unpunished. 

After  waltzing  for  no  less  a  space  than  five  minutes 
— in  a  ballroom  bare  as  a  crypt,  in  broad  daylight, 
and  in  silence — Alice,  happening  to  look  up,  saw  a 
look  on  her  partner's  face  which  made  her  tremble. 
She  had  never  seen  a  similar  expression. 

It  was  pale  and  resolute — stern,  terrible.  She  dis- 
91 


At  Large 


engaged  herself  with  Httle  ado,  and  sank  quietly  into 
a  chair  by  the  window. 

"  A  fine  *  one  round  ' !  "  she  said  demurely ;  "  but 
it  shall  be  deducted  from  your  allowance  this  evening. 

She  could  not  see  him ;  he  was  behind  her.  His 
eyes  were  devouring  the  shapely  little  head  dipped 
in  the  gold  of  the  afternoon  sun.  Her  face  he  could 
not  see — only  the  tips  of  two  dainty  ears  and  they 
were  pink.  But  a  single  lock  of  hair — a  wilful  lock 
that  had  got  astray  in  the  dance,  and  lay  on  her 
shoulder  like  a  wisp  of  sunlit  hay — attracted  his  at- 
tention, and  held  it.  When  he  managed  to  release 
his  eyes,  they  roved  swiftly  round  the  room,  and 
finally  rested  upon  another  chair  within  his  reach,  on 
which  lay  two  wax-candles,  two  dinner-knives,  and  a 
pair  of  scissors. 

A  click  of  steel  an  inch  from  her  ear  caused  Alice 
to  start  from  her  chair  and  turn  round.  Mr.  Miles — 
pale,  but  otherwise  undisturbed — stood  holding  the 
scissors  in  his  right  hand,  and  in  his  left  was  a  lock  of 
her  hair.  For  one  moment  Miss  Bristo  was  dumb 
with  indignation.  Then  her  lips  parted;  but  before 
she  could  say  a  word  the  door-handle  turned,  Mr. 
Miles  dropped  the  scissors  upon  the  chair  and  put 
his  left  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  Colonel  Bristo  were  thrust  into  the  room. 

"  Ah,  I  have  found  you  at  last !  "  the  old  gentleman 
cried  with  an  indulgent  smile.  "  If  you  are  at  liberty, 
and  Alice  don't  mind,  we  will  speak  of — that  matter 
— in  my  study." 

"  My  lesson  is  just  over,"  said  Miles,  bowing  to 
Alice.    He  moved  towards  the  door ;  with  his  fingers 

92 


A  Dancing  Lesson 

upon  the  handle,  he  turned,  and  for  an  instant  re- 
garded Alice  with  a  calm,  insolent,  yet  tender  gaze; 
then  the  door  closed,  and  Alice  was  alone. 

She  heard  the  footsteps  echo  down  the  passage; 
she  heard  another  door  open  and  shut.  The  next 
sound  that  reached  her  ears  was  at  the  other  side  of 
the  room  in  which  she  sat.  She  glanced  quickly 
toward  the  curtained  door:  a  man  stood  between  it 
and  her.    It  was  Dick. 

Alice  recoiled  in  her  chair.  She  saw  before  her  a 
face  pale  with  passion;  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
she  encountered  the  eyes  of  an  angry  man.  She 
quailed ;  a  strange  thrill  crept  through  her  frame ;  she 
could  only  look  and  listen.  It  seemed  an  age  before 
Dick  spoke.  When  he  did  speak,  it  was  in  a  voice  far 
calmer  than  she  expected.  She  did  not  know  that 
the  calm  was  forced,  and  therefore  the  more  ominous. 

"  I  have  only  one  thing  to  ask,"  he  began  hurriedly, 
in  a  low  tone :  "  was  this  a  plot  ?  If  it  was,  do  say  so, 
and  so  far  as  I  am  concerned  its  eflfect  shall  be  quick 
enough :  I  will  go  at  once.  Only  I  want  to  know  the 
worst,  to  begin  with." 

Alice  sat  like  a  stone.  She  gave  no  sign  that  she 
had  so  much  as  heard  him.  Poor  girl,  the  irony  of 
Fate  seemed  directed  against  her!  She  had  invited 
Dick  on  purpose  to  consult  him  about  Mr.  Miles,  and 
now — and  now — 

"  You  don't  speak,"  pursued  Dick,  less  steadily ; 
"  but  you  must.  I  mean  to  have  my  answer  before 
either  of  us  leaves  this  room.  I  mean  to  know  all 
there  is  to  know.  There  shall  be  an  end  to  this  fool- 
ing between  us  two !  " 

93 


At  Large 


"  What  right  have  you  to  speak  to  me  like  this  ?  " 

"  The  right  of  a  true  lover — hopeless  of  late,  yet 
still  that !    Answer  me :  had  you  planned  this  ?  " 

"  You  know  that  is  absurd." 

How  coldly,  how  evenly  she  spoke !  Was  her  heart 
of  ice  ?  But  Dick — there  was  little  of  the  "  true 
lover  "  in  his  looks,  and  much  of  the  true  hater.  Yet 
even  now,  one  gentle  word,  one  tender  look  from  him, 
and  tears  of  pity  and  penitence  might  still  have  flowed. 
His  next  words  froze  them. 

"  No  conspiracy,  then !  Merely  artless,  honest, 
downright  love-making;  dancing — alone — and  giving 
locks  of  hair  and  (though  only  by  coincidence !)  the 
man  you  loved  once  and  enslaved  for  ever — this  man 
of  all  others  asked  by  you  to  come  at  this  very  hour, 
and,  in  fact,  turning  up  in  the  middle  of  it !  And  this 
was  chance,    I  am  glad  to  hear  it !" 

Men  have  been  called  hard  names  for  speaking  to 
women  less  harshly  than  this — even  on  greater  prov- 
ocation; but  let  it  be  remembered  that  he  had  loved 
her  long  years  better  than  his  life;  that  he  had 
wrenched  himself  from  England  and  from  her — for 
her  sake;  that  during  all  that  time  her  image  had 
been  graven  on  his  soul.  And,  further,  that  he  had 
led  a  rough  life  in  rough  places,  where  men  lose  their 
shallower  refinements,  and  whence  only  the  stout 
spirits  emerge  at  all. 

When  recrimination  becomes  insult  a  woman  is  no 
longer  defenceless ;  right  or  wrong  in  the  beginning, 
she  is  right  now;  she  needs  no  more  than  the  con- 
sciousness of  this  to  quicken  her  wit  and  whet  her 
tongue. 

94 


A  Dancing  Lesson 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  exclaimed  Alice,  look- 
ing him  splendidly  in  the  face.  "  Have  the  goodness 
to  explain  yourself  before  I  say  the  last  word  that 
shall  ever  pass  between  you  and  me." 

"  Yes,  I  will  explain,"  cried  Dick,  beside  himself — 
"  I  will  explain  your  treatment  of  me !  While  you 
knew  I  was  on  my  way  to  you — while  I  was  on  the 
very  sea — ^you  took  away  your  love  from  me,  and  gave 
it  to  another  man.  Since  then  see  how  you  have 
treated  me!  Well,  that  man — the  man  you  flatter, 
and  pet,  and  coquette  with ;  the  man  who  kennels  here 
like  a  tame  dog — is  a  rogue:  a  rogue  and  a  villain, 
mark  my  words  !  " 

In  the  midst  of  passion  that  gathered  before  his  eyes 
a  marble  statue,  pure  and  cold,  seemed  to  rise  out 
of  the  ground  in  front  of  him. 

"  One  word,"  said  Alice  Bristo,  in  the  kind  of  voice 
that  might  come  from  marble :  "  the  last  one.  You 
spoke  of  putting  an  end  to  something  existing  be- 
tween us — *  fooling '  was  the  word  you  used.  Well, 
there  was  something  between  us  long  ago,  though 
you  might  have  found  a  prettier  word  for  it ;  but  it 
also  ended  long  ago ;  and  you  have  known  that  some 
weeks.  There  has  since  been  friendship ;  yes,  you 
shall  have  an  end  put  to  that  too,  though  you  might 
have  asked  it  differently.  Stay,  I  have  not  finished. 
You  spoke  of  Mr.  Miles ;  most  of  what  you  said  was 
beneath  notice ;  indeed,  you  have  so  far  lost  self- 
control  that  I  think  you  cannot  know  now  what  you 
said  a  minute  ago.  But  you  spoke  of  Mr.  Miles  in 
a  cruel,  wicked  way.  You  have  said  behind  his  back 
what  you  dare  not  say  to  his  face.     He  at  least  is 

95 


At  Large 


generous  and  good ;  he  at  least  never  forgets  that  he 
is  a  gentleman ;  but  then,  you  see,  he  is  so  infinitely 
nobler,  and  truer,  and  greater  than  you — this  man 
you  dare  to  call  a  villain !  " 

"  You  love  him !  "  cried  Dick  fiercely. 

Instead  of  answering,  Alice  lowered  her  eyes. 
Stung  to  the  quick — sick  and  sore  at  heart — revenge 
came  within  her  reach  in  too  sweet  a  form  to  be 
resisted. 

Never  was  lie  better  acted.  Dick  was  staggered. 
He  approached  her  unsteadily. 

"  It  is  a  villain  that  you  love !  "  he  gasped.  "  I 
know  it — a  villain  and  an  impostor!  But  I  will  un- 
mask him  with  my  own  hands — so  help  me  God !  " 

He  raised  his  pale  face  upward  as  he  spoke,  smiting 
his  palms  together  with  a  dull  dead  thud.  Next  mo- 
ment he  had  vaulted  through  the  open  window  by 
which  Miles  had  entered  so  short  a  time  before — and 
was  gone. 

Meanwhile  an  interview  of  a  very  different  char- 
acter took  place  in  Colonel  Bristo's  sanctum.  It 
ended  thus: 

"  Then  you  are  quite  sure  that  this  hundred  will  be 
enough  for  you  to  go  on  with  ?  " 

"  More  than  enough ;  fifty  would  have  done.  An- 
other Queensland  mail  is  due  a  month  hence;  and 
they  can  never  fail  me  twice  running." 

"  But  you  say  you  are  so  far  up  country  that  you 
do  not  send  down  to  meet  every  mail.  Your  partner 
may  not  have  thought  you  likely  to  run  short." 

"  I  wired  him  some  weeks  ago  that  I  had  miscal- 
96 


A  Dancing  Lesson 

culated  damages.    I  should  have  had  my  draft  by  this 
mail  but  for  the  floods.     I  feel  confident  they  have 
prevented  him  sending  down  in  time ;  there  has  been 
mention  of  these  floods  several  times  in  the  papers." 
"  Well,  my  dear  Miles,  if  you  want  more,  there  is 
more  where  this  came  from.     I  cashed  the  cheque 
myself  this  morning,  by  the  way ;  I  happened  to  be 
in  the  bank,  and  I  thought  you  would  like  it  better. 
Here  they  are — ten  tens." 
"  Colonel  Bristo,  I  can  never  express — " 
"  Don't  try,  sir.    You  saved  my  life." 


97 


AN   OLD   FRIEND  AND  AN    OLD    MEMORY 

When  Dick  Edmonstone  opened  the  garden  gate 
of  Iris  Lodge  he  was  no  longer  excited.  The  storm 
that  had  so  lately  shaken  his  frame  and  lashed  his 
spirit  had  spent  its  frenzy ;  no  such  traces  as  heaving 
breast  or  quickened  pulse  remained  to  tell  of  it.  The 
man  was  calm — despair  had  calmed  him ;  the  stillness 
of  settled  gloom  had  entered  his  soul.  His  step  was 
firm  but  heavy ;  the  eye  was  vacant ;  lips  like  blanched 
iron;  the  whole  face  pale  and  rigid. 

These  are  hall-marks  graven  by  misery  on  the  face 
of  man;  they  are  universal  and  obvious  enough, 
though  not  always  at  the  first  glance.  For  instance, 
if  prepared  with  a  pleasant  surprise  for  another,  one 
is  naturally  slow  to  detect  his  dismal  mood.  Thus, 
no  sooner  had  Dick  set  foot  upon  the  garden  path 
than  the  front  door  was  flung  open,  and  there  stood 
Fanny,  beaming  with  good-humour,  good  news  on  the 
tip  of  her  tongue.  It  was  like  sunrise  facing  a  leaden 
bank  of  western  clouds. 

"  Oh,  Dick,  there  is  someone  waiting  to  see  you ! 
You  will  never  guess ;  it  is  a  bush  friend  of  yours. 
Such  an  amusing  creature !  "  she  added  sotto  voce. 

Dick  stood  still  on  the  path  and  groaned.  "Biggs!" 
he  muttered  in  despair. 

98 


An  Old  Friend  and  an  Old  Memory 

Nothing  directs  attention  to  the  face  so  surely  as 
the  voice.  There  was  such  utter  weariness  in  this  one 
word  that  Fanny  glanced  keenly  at  her  brother,  saw 
the  dulness  of  his  eyes,  read  for  apathy  agony,  and 
knew  that  instant  that  there  had  been  a  cruel  crisis 
in  his  affair  with  Alice  Bristo. 

Instead  of  betraying  her  insight,  she  went  quickly 
to  him  with  a  bright  smile,  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm, 
and  said : 

"  His  name  is  not  Biggs,  Dick  dear.  It  is — but  you 
will  be  very  glad  to  see  him !    Come  in  at  once." 

A  flash  of  interest  lit  up  Dick's  clouded  face;  he 
followed  Fanny  into  the  hall,  and  there,  darkening 
the  nearest  doorway,  stood  a  burly  figure.  The  light 
of  the  room  being  behind  this  man,  Dick  could  not 
at  once  distinguish  his  features.  While  he  hesitated, 
a  well-remembered  falsetto  asked  if  he  had  forgotten 
his  old  mate.  Then  Dick  sprang  forward  with  out- 
stretched hand. 

"  Dear  old  Jack,  as  I  live !  " 

"  Dear  old  humbug !  Let  me  tell  you  you've  done 
your  level  best  to  miss  me.  An  hour  and  a  half  have 
I  been  here,  a  nuisance  to  these  ladies — " 

"  No,  no,  Dick ;  Mr.  Flint  has  done  nothing  but 
entertain  us,"  put  in  Mrs.  Edmonstone. 

"  A  charitable  version,"  said  Flint,  bowing  clum- 
sily. "  But  I  tell  you,  my  boy,  in  half-an-hour  my 
train  goes." 

"  Don't  delude  yourself,"  said  Dick ;  "  you  won't 
get  off  so  easily  to-night,  let  alone  half-an-hour." 

"  Must,  sir,"  Jack  Flint  replied.  "  Leave  Dover  by 
to-night's    boat — holiday.      If   you'd   only   come    in 

99 


At  Large 


sooner !  I  wonder  now  where  he's  been  ?  "  Flint  ad- 
ded, with  a  comic  expression  on  his  good-natured 
face, 

"  No  place  that  I  wouldn't  have  left  for  an  hour  or 
two  with  you,  old  chap,"  said  Dick  in  a  strange  tone ; 
"  nowhere  very  pleasant." 

Nothing  better  could  have  happened  to  Dick  just 
then  than  seeing  the  chum  from  whom  he  had  parted 
nearly  three  years  ago.  It  was  as  though  his  good 
angel  had  stored  up  for  him  a  sovereign  simple, 
and  administered  it  at  the  moment  it  was  most  needed. 
In  the  presence  of  Flint  he  had  escaped  for  a 
few  minutes  from  the  full  sense  of  his  anguish.  But 
now,  by  an  unlucky  remark.  Jack  had  undone  his 
good  work  as  unconsciously  as  he  had  effected  it. 
Dick  remembered  bitterly  that  long  ago  he  had  told 
his  friend  all  about  his  love — as  it  then  stood. 

"  Mr,  Flint  has  been  telling  us  some  of  your  ad- 
ventures, which  it  seems  we  should  never  have  heard 
from  you,"  observed  Fanny,  reproachfully. 

This  was  quite  true.  Once  snubbed  at  Grays- 
brooke,  his  system  of  silence  on  that  subject  had  been 
extended  to  Iris  Lodge.  One  set  of  people  had  voted 
his  experiences  tiresome ;  that  was  enough  for  him. 
This  was  doubtless  unfair  to  his  family,  but  it  was  not 
unnatural  in  Dick.  He  was  almost  morbid  on  the 
point, 

"  Indeed !  "  he  replied ;  "  but  suppose  he  gives  us 
some  of  his  Irish  adventures  instead?  How  many 
times  have  they  tried  to  pot  you,  my  unjust  landlord  ? 
You  must  know,  mother,  that  this  is  not  only  my  ex- 
partner  in  an  honourable  commercial  enterprise — not 

lOO 


An  Old  Friend  and  an  Old  Memory 

only  '  our  Mr.  Flint '  that  used  to  be — but  John  Flint, 
Esq.,  J.P.,  of  Castle  Flint,  county  Kerry;  certainly  a 
landholder,  and  of  course — it  goes  without  saying — 
a  tyrant." 

"  Really  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Edmonstone.  "  He  did  not 
tell  us  that." 

"  It's  the  unhappy  fact,"  said  Flint,  gloomily.  "  A 
few  hundred  acres  of  hills  and  heather,  and  a  barn 
called  by  courtesy  '  Castle  '  ;  those  are  my  feudal  pos- 
sessions. The  scenery  is  gorgeous,  but  the  land — is 
a  caution !  " 

"Barren?"  asked  Dick. 

"  As  Riverina  in  a  drought." 

"  And  the  tenants  ?  " 

"  Oh,  as  to  the  tenants,  we  hit  it  off  pretty  well.  It's 
in  North  Kerry  they're  lively.  I'm  in  the  south,  you 
see,  and  there  they're  peaceable  enough.  Laziness  is 
their  worst  crime.  I  do  all  I  can  for  'em,  but  I  don't 
see  how  I  can  hold  on  much  longer." 

"Evict?" 

"  No,"  said  Flint,  warmly ;  "  I'd  rather  emigrate, 
and  take  the  whole  boihng  of  them  with  me ;  take  up 
new  country,  and  let  them  select  on  it.  Dick,  you 
savage,  don't  laugh;  I'm  not  joking.  I've  thought 
about  it  often." 

"  Would  you  really  like  to  go  back  to  Australia, 
Mr.  FHnt  ?  "  Mrs.  Edmonstone  asked,  glancing  at  the 
same  time  rather  anxiously  at  her  son. 

"Shouldn't  mind,  madam,"  returned  Flint. 

"  No  more  should  1 1 "  broke  in  Dick,  in  a  harsh 
voice. 

Flint  looked  anxiously  at  his  friend,  and  made  a 


At  Large 


mental  note  that  Dick  had  not  found  all  things  quite 
as  he  expected.  For  a  minute  no  one  spoke ;  then 
Fanny  took  the  opportunity  of  returning  to  her  for- 
mer charge. 

"  We  have  heard  some  of  your  adventures  which 
you  seemed  determined  to  keep  to  yourself.  I  think 
it  was  very  mean  of  you,  and  so  does  mamma.  Oh, 
Dick,  why — why  did  you  never  tell  us  about  the 
bush-ranger?" 

Mrs.  Edmonstone  gazed  fondly  at  her  son — and 
shivered. 

"  Has  he  told  you  that  ? "  Dick  asked  quickly. 
"  Jack,  old  chap  " — rather  reproachfully — "  it  was  a 
thing  I  never  spoke  of." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear  fellow !  " 

"  No,  it's  a  fact.  I  never  cared  to  talk  about  it,  I 
felt  it  so  strongly." 

"  Too  strongly,"  said  Flint ;  "  I  said  so  at  the 
time." 

For  a  little  while  Dick  was  silent ;  then  he  said : 

"  Since  he  has  told  you,  it  doesn't  matter.  I  can 
only  say  it  nearly  drove  me  out  of  my  mind;  it  was 
the  bitterest  hour  of  my  life !  " 

A  little  earlier  that  day  this  would  have  been  true. 

His  mother's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  I  can  under- 
stand your  feeling,  dear  Dick,"  she  murmured ;  "  yet 
I  wish  you  had  told  us — though,  indeed,  it  would 
have  made  me  miserable  if  you  had  written  it.  But 
now  Mr.  Flint  has  given  us  a  graphic  account  of  the 
whole  incident.  Thank  Heaven  you  were  spared,  my 
boy!" 

"  Thank  Sundown,"  said  Dick  dryly. 

102 


An  Old  Friend  and  an  Old  Memory 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  cried  Fanny.  "  Noble  fellow !  Poor, 
wicked,  generous  man!  I  didn't  think  such  robbers 
existed;  I  thought  they  went  out  with  wigs  and 
patches,  a  hundred  years  ago." 

"  So  they  did,"  muttered  Flint.  "  They're  extinct 
as  the  dodo.  I  never  could  make  this  one  out — a 
deep  dog." 

"  Oh,  sir,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Edmonstone,  "  do  you 
think  there  is  no  spark  of  goodness  in  the  worst  nat- 
ures ?  of  truth  in  the  falsest  ?  of  generosity  in  the  most 
selfish?" 

Jack  Flint  looked  quaintly  solemn ;  his  face  was  in 
shadow,  luckily. 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick,  gravely,  "  my  mother  is  right ; 
there  was  a  good  impulse  left  in  that  poor  fellow, 
and  if  you  find  gold  in  an  outlaw  and  a  thief,  you 
may  look  for  it  anywhere.  But  in  my  opinion  there 
was  more  than  a  remnant  of  good  in  that  man.  Think 
of  it.  He  saved  me  from  being  knifed,  to  begin  with  ; 
well,  it  was  to  his  own  interest  to  do  that.  But  after 
that  he  took  pity,  and  left  us  our  money.  That  needed 
more  than  a  good  impulse ;  it  needed  a  force  of  char- 
acter which  few  honest  men  have.  Try  and  realise 
his  position — a  price  upon  him,  his  hand  against  the 
world  and  the  world's  hand  against  him,  a  villain  by 
profession,  not  credited  with  a  single  virtue  except 
courage,  not  bound  by  a  single  law  of  God  or  man; 
a  man  you  would  have  thought  incapable  of  compas- 
sion ;  and  yet — well,  you  know  what  he  did." 

There  was  a  manly  fervour  in  his  voice  which  went 
straight  to  the  hearts  of  his  mother  and  sister.  They 
could  not  speak.    Even  Flint  forgot  to  look  sceptical. 

103 


At  Large 


"  If  it  had  not  meant  so  much  to  me,  that  hundred 
pounds,"  Dick  continued,  as  though  arguing  with 
himself,  "  it  is  possible  that  I  might  think  less  of  the 
fellow.  I  don't  know,  but  I  doubt  it,  for  we  had  no 
notion  then  what  that  hundred  would  turn  to.  As  it 
is,  I  have  thought  of  it  very  often.  You  remember, 
Jack,  how  much  more  that  hundred  seemed  to  me  at 
that  time  than  it  really  was,  and  how  much  less  to 
you?" 

"  It  was  a  hundred  and  thirty,"  said  Flint ;  "  I 
remember  that  you  didn't  forget  the  odd  thirty 
then." 

"  Dick,"  Fanny  presently  exclaimed,  out  of  a  brown 
study,  "  what  do  you  think  you  would  do  if — you  ever 
met  that  bushranger  again.  I  mean,  if  he  was  at  your 
mercy,  you  know  ?  " 

Flint  sighed,  and  prepared  his  spirit  for  heroics. 

"  No  use  thinking,"  Dick  answered.  "  By  this  time 
he's  a  life — if  they  didn't  hang  him." 

Flint  became  suddenly  animated. 

"  What?  "  he  cried,  sharply. 

"  Why,  the  last  I  heard  of  him — the  day  I  sailed 
from  Melbourne — was,  that  he  was  captured  some- 
where up  in  Queensland." 

"  If  you  had  sailed  a  day  later  you  would  have  heard 
more." 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Dick,  in  his  turn. 

"  He  escaped." 

"Escaped?" 

"  The  same  night.  He  got  clean  away  from  the 
police-barracks  at  Mount  Clarence — that  was  the 
little  Queensland  township.    They  never  caught  him. 

104 


An  Old  Friend  and  an  Old  Memory 

They  believe  he  managed  to  clear  out  of  the  country 
— to  America,  probably." 

"  By  Jove,  I'm  not  sorry !  "  exclaimed  Dick. 

"  Here  are  some  newspaper  cuttings  about  him," 
continued  Flint,  taking  the  scraps  from  his  pocket- 
book  and  handing  them  to  Dick.  "  Read  them  after- 
wards ;  they  will  interest  you.  He  was  taken  along 
with  another  fellow,  but  the  other  fellow  was  taken 
dead — shot  through  the  heart.  That  must  have  been 
the  one  he  called  Ben ;  for  the  big  brute  who  tried 
to  knife  you  had  disappeared  some  time  before.  When 
they  were  taken  they  were  known  to  have  a  lot  of 
gold  somewhere — I  mean.  Sundown  was — for  they 
had  just  stuck  up  the  Mount  Clarence  bank." 

"  Yes,  I  heard  that  when  I  heard  of  the  capture." 

"  Well,  it  was  believed  that  Sundown  feared  an  at- 
tack from  the  police,  and  planted  the  swag,  went  back 
to  it  after  his  escape,  and  got  clear  away  with  the  lot. 
But  nothing  is  known ;  for  neither  Sundown  nor  the 
gold  was  ever  seen  again." 

"  Mamma,  aren't  you  glad  he  escaped,"  cried 
Fanny,  with  glowing  cheeks.  "  It  may  be  wicked, 
but  I  know  I  am  !    Now,  what  would  you  do,  Dick  ?  " 

"  What's  the  good  of  talking  about  it  ?  "  said  Dick. 

"  Then  I'll  tell  you  what  I'd  do ;  I'd  hide  this  poor 
Sundown  from  justice ;  I'd  give  him  a  chance  of  try- 
ing honesty,  for  a  change — that's  what  I  should  do ! 
And  if  I  were  you,  I  should  long  and  long  and  long 
to  do  it !  " 

Flint  could  not  help  smiling.  Dick's  sentiment  on 
the  subject  was  sufficiently  exaggerated ;  but  this 
young  lady !    Did  this  absurd  romanticism  run  in  the 

105 


At  Large 


family  ?    If  so,  was  it  the  father,  or  the  grandfather, 
or  the  great-grandfather  that  died  in  a  madhouse  ? 

But  Dick  gazed  earnestly  at  his  sister.  Her  eyes 
shone  like  living  coals  in  the  twilight  of  the  shaded 
room.  She  was  imaginative ;  and  the  story  of  Dick 
and  the  bushranger  appealed  at  once  to  her  sensibil- 
ities and  her  sympathy.  She  could  see  the  night  at- 
tack in  the  silent  forest,  and  a  face  of  wild,  picturesque 
beauty — the  ideal  highwayman — was  painted  in  vivid 
colour  on  the  canvas  of  her  brain. 

"  Fanny,  I  half  think  I  might  be  tempted  to  do 
something  like  that,"  said  Dick  gently.  "  I  have 
precious  few  maxims,  but  one  is  that  he  who  does 
me  a  good  turn  gets  paid  with  interest — though  I 
have  a  parallel  one  for  the  man  who  works  me  a  mis- 
chief." 

"  So  it  is  a  good  turn  not  to  rob  a  man  whom 
you've  already  assaulted ! "  observed  Flint  ironically. 

"  It  is  a  good  turn  to  save  a  man's  Hfe." 

"  True  ;  but  you  seem  to  think  more  of  your  money 
than  your  life !  " 

"  I  believe  I  did  four  years  ago,"  said  Dick,  smil- 
ing, but  he  checked  his  smile  when  Flint  looked  at 
his  watch  and  hastily  rose. 

Dick  expostulated,  almost  to  the  extent  of  bluster, 
but  quite  in  vain ;  Flint  was  already  shaking  hands 
with  the  ladies. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  he,  "  I  leave  these  shores 
to-night ;  it's  my  annual  holiday.  I'm  going  to  forget 
my  peasants  for  a  few  weeks  in  Paris  and  Italy.  If 
I  lose  this  train  I  lose  to-night's  boat — I  found  out 
that  before  I  came ;  so  good-bye,  my — " 

io6 


An  Old  Friend  and  an  Old  Memory 

"  No,  I'm  coming  to  the  station,"  said  Dick ;  "  at 
least  I  stickle  for  that  last  office." 

Mrs.  Edmonstone  hoped  that  Mr.  Flint — her  boy's 
best  friend,  as  she  was  assured — would  see  his  way 
to  calling  on  his  way  home  and  staying  a  day  or 
two.  Mr.  Flint  promised ;  then  he  and  Dick  left  the 
house. 

They  were  scarcely  in  the  road  before  Flint  stopped, 
turned,  laid  a  hand  on  each  of  Dick's  shoulders,  and 
quickly  delivered  his  mind : 

"  There's  something  wrong.  I  saw  it  at  once.  Tell 
me." 

Dick  lowered  his  eyes  before  his  friend's  searching 
gaze. 

"  Oh,  Jack,"  he  answered,  sadly,  "  it  is  all  wrong !  " 

And  before  they  reached  the  station  Flint  knew  all 
that  there  was  to  know — an  abridged  but  unvarnished 
version — of  the  withering  and  dying  of  Dick's  high 
hopes. 

They  talked  softly  together  until  the  train  steamed 
into  the  station ;  and  then  it  was  Dick  who  at  the  last 
moment  returned  to  a  matter  just  touched  in  passing: 

"  As  to  this  dance  to-night — you  say  I  must  go  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  must  go.  It  would  never  do  to 
stay  away.  For  one  thing,  your  friend,  the  Colonel 
might  be  hurt  and  bothered,  and  he  is  now  your  best 
friend,  mind.  Then  you  must  put  a  plucky  face  on  it ; 
she  mustn't  see  you  cave  in  after  the  first  facer.  I  half 
think  it  isn't  all  up  yet ;  you  can't  tell." 

Dick  shook  his  head. 

"  I  would  rather  not  go ;  it  will  be  wormwood  to 
me  ;  you  know  what  it  will  be :  the  two  together.  And 

107 


At  Large 


I  know  it's  all  up.     You  don't  understand  women, 
Jack." 

''  Do  you?  "  asked  the  other,  keenly. 
"  She    couldn't    deny    that — that — I    can't    say    it. 
Jack." 

"  Ah,  but    you  enraged    her  first !     Anyway,  you 
ought  to  go  to-night  for  your  people's  sake.     Your 
sister's  looking  forward    to  it  tremendously ;  never 
been  to  a  ball  with  you  before ;  she  told  me  so.     By 
Jove !  I  wished  I  was  going  myself." 
"  I  wish  you  were,  instead  of  me." 
"  Nonsense  !    I  say,  stand  clear.     Good-bye !  " 
Away  went  the  train  and  Jack  Flint.     And  Dick 
stood  alone  on  the  platform — all  the  more  alone  be- 
cause his  hand  still  tingled  from  the  pressure  of  that 
honest  grip ;  because  cheering  tones  still  rang  in  his 
ears,  while  his  heart  turned  sick,  and  very  lonely. 


108 


XI 

DRESSING,    DANCING,    LOOKING    ON 

The  Bristos  dined  early  that  evening,  and  dressed 
afterwards ;  but  only  the  Colonel  and  Miles  sat  down. 
Mrs.  Parish  was  far  too  busy,  adding  everywhere  fin- 
ishing touches  from  her  own  deft  hand ;  while  as  for 
Alice,  she  took  tea  only,  in  her  room. 

When  Mr.  Miles  went  up-stairs  to  dress,  the  red 
sunlight  still  streamed  in  slanting  rays  through  the 
open  window.  His  room  was  large  and  pleasant,  and 
faced  the  drive. 

Mr.  Miles  appeared  to  be  in  excellent  spirits.  He 
whistled  softly  to  himself — one  of  Alice's  songs;  a 
quiet  smile  lurked  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth; 
but  since  his  yellow  moustache  was  long  and  heavy, 
this  smile  was  more  apparent  in  the  expression  of 
the  eyes.  He  moved  about  very  softly  for  such  a 
heavy  man — almost  noiselessly,  in  fact;  but  this 
practice  was  habitual  with  him. 

His  dress-clothes  were  already  laid  out  on  the  bed ; 
they  seemed  never  to  have  been  worn.  His  port- 
manteau, which  stood  in  one  corner,  also  appeared 
to  have  seen  little  service :  it  would  have  been  hard 
to  find  a  scratch  on  the  leather,  and  the  glossy  surface 
bore  but  one  porter's  label.  But,  naturally  enough, 
Miles's   belongings  were  new:  a   fresh   outfit   from 

109 


At  Large 


head  to  heel  is  no  slight  temptation  to  the  Australian 
in  London. 

The  first  step  towards  dressing  for  a  ball  is  to  un- 
dress ;  the  first  step  towards  undressing  is  to  empty 
one's  pockets.  With  Miles  this  evening  this  was 
rather  an  interesting  operation.  It  necessitated  sev- 
eral niceties  of  manipulation,  and  occupied  some  little 
time.  Miles  carefully  drew  down  the  blinds  as  a  pre- 
liminary, and  bolted  the  door. 

He  then  crossed  to  the  mantel-piece,  lit  the  gas, 
and  felt  in  his  breast-pocket. 

The  first  thing  to  be  removed  from  this  pocket  was 
an  envelope — an  envelope  considerably  thickened  by 
its  contents,  which  crackled  between  the  fingers. 
Miles  dropped  the  envelope  into  the  fender  after  with- 
drawing the  contents.  These  he  smoothed  out  upon 
the  mantel-piece ;  he  fairly  beamed  upon  them ;  they 
were  ten  Bank  of  England  ten-pound  notes.  Then 
he  counted  them,  folded  them  into  small  compass, 
and  transferred  them  to  the  trousers-pocket  of  his 
evening  dress.  In  doing  this  his  smile  became  so 
broad  that  his  whistling  ended  rather  abruptly.  It 
was  a  pleasant  smile. 

The  next  incumbrance  of  which  he  relieved  himself 
came  from  that  same  breast-pocket ;  but  it  was  less 
easily  placed  elsewhere — so  much  less  that  the  whist- 
ling was  dropped  altogether,  and,  instead  of  smiHng, 
Mr.  Miles  frowned.  Nay,  a  discovery  that  his  dress- 
coat  had  no  breast-pocket  was  followed  by  quite  a 
volley  of  oaths.  Swearing,  however,  is  a  common  fail- 
ing of  the  most  estimable  bushmen ;  so  that,  coming 
from  a  man  Uke  Miles,  the  words  meant  simply  noth- 

110 


Dressing,   Dancing,   Looking  on 

ing.  Miles  then  tried  the  trousers-pocket  which  did 
not  contain  the  bank-notes  ;  but  though  the  article  was 
— of  its  kind — remarkably  small,  it  was  obviously  too 
large  for  such  a  pocket,  and  for  the  tail-pockets  it  was 
too  heavy.  Mr.  Miles  looked  seriously  put  out.  His 
face  wore  just  that  expression  which  might  be  pro- 
duced by  the  rupture  of  a  habit  or  rule  of  life  that  has 
become  second  nature.  In  despair  and  disgust  he 
dropped  the  thing  into  his  travelling  bag,  which  he 
was  careful  to  lock  at  once,  and  placed  the  key  in  the 
pocket  with  the  notes :  the  thing  was  a  small  revolver. 

There  followed,  from  the  waistcoat,  penknife,  pencil- 
case,  watch  and  chain,  and,  lastly,  something  that 
created  a  strange  and  instant  change  in  the  expression 
of  Mr.  Miles ;  and  this,  though  it  was  the  veriest  trifle, 
lying  in  a  twisted  scrap  of  printed  paper.  He  spread 
and  smoothed  out  the  paper  just  as  he  had  done  with 
the  notes,  and  something  was  displayed  on  its  surface : 
something — to  judge  by  the  greedy  gaze  that  de- 
voured it — of  greater  value  than  the  bank-notes,  and 
to  be  parted  with  less  willingly  than  the  revolver.  It 
was  a  lock  of  light-coloured  hair. 

Mr.  Miles  again  unlocked  his  travelling  bag,  and 
took  from  it  a  packet  of  oiled-silk,  a  pair  of  scissors, 
tape,  a  needle  and  thread.  It  is  a  habit  of  many  travel- 
lers to  have  such  things  always  about  them.  Miles, 
for  one,  was  very  handy  in  the  use  of  them,  so  that  in 
about  ten  minutes  he  produced  a  very  neat  little  bag, 
shaped  like  an  arc,  and  hung  upon  a  piece  of  tape 
with  ends  sewn  to  the  ends  of  the  chord.  Holding 
this  bag  in  his  left  hand,  he  now  took  very  carefully, 
between  the  thumb  and  finger  of  his  right  hand,  the 

III 


At  Large 


lock  of  light-coloured  hair.  He  let  it  roll  in  his  palm, 
he  placed  his  finger  tips  in  the  mouth  of  the  little  bag, 
then  paused,  as  if  unwilling  to  let  the  hair  escape  his 
hand,  and,  as  he  paused,  his  face  bent  down  until  his 
beard  touched  his  wrist.  Had  not  the  notion  been 
wildly  absurd,  one  who  witnessed  the  action  might 
have  expected  Mr.  Miles  to  press  his  lips  to  the  soft 
tress  that  nestled  in  his  palm ;  but,  indeed,  he  did 
nothing  of  the  kind.  He  jerked  up  his  head  suddenly, 
slipped  the  tress  into  its  little  case,  and  began  at  once 
to  stitch  up  the  opening.  As  he  did  this,  however,  he 
might  have  been  closing  the  tomb  upon  all  he  loved — 
his  face  was  so  sad.  When  the  thread  was  secured 
and  broken,  he  loosed  his  collar  and  shirt-band  and 
hung  the  oiled-silk  bag  around  his  neck. 

At  that  moment  a  clock  on  the  landing,  chiming 
the  three-quarters  after  eight,  bade  him  make  haste. 
There  was  good  reason,  it  seemed,  why  he  should  be 
downstairs  before  the  guests  began  to  arrive. 

In  the  drawing-room  he  found  Colonel  Bristo  and 
Mrs.  Parish.  In  face  benevolent  rather  than  strong, 
there  was  little  in  Colonel  Bristo  to  suggest  at  any 
time  the  Crimean  hero ;  he  might  have  been  mistaken 
for  a  prosperous  stockbroker,  but  for  a  certain  shy- 
ness of  manner  incompatible  with  the  part.  To-night, 
indeed,  the  military  aspect  belonged  rather  to  the  lady 
housekeeper;  for  rustling  impatiently  in  her  hand- 
some black  silk  gown,  springing  up  repeatedly  at  the 
sound  of  imaginary  wheels,  Mrs.  Parish  resembled 
nothing  so  much  as  an  old  war  horse  scenting  battle. 
She  welcomed  the  entrance  of  Miles  with  effusion, 
but  Miles  paid  her  little  attention,  and  as  little  to  his 

112 


Dressing,   Dancing,   Looking  on 

host.  He  glanced  quickly  round  the  room,  and  bit 
his  lip  with  vexation ;  Miss  Bristo  was  as  yet  invisible. 
He  crossed  the  hall  by  a  kind  of  instinct,  and  looked 
into  the  ballroom,  and  there  he  found  her.  She  had 
flitted  down  that  moment. 

Her  dress  was  partly  like  a  crystal  fall,  and  partly 
like  its  silver  spray ;  it  was  all  creamy  satin  and  tulle. 
Or  so,  at  least,  it  seemed  to  her  partners  whose  knowl- 
edge, of  course,  was  not  technical.  One  of  them,  who 
did  not  catch  her  name  on  introduction — being  a 
stranger,  brought  under  the  wing  of  a  lady  with  many 
daughters — described  her  on  his  card  simply  as 
"  elbow  sleeves ; "  and  this  must  have  been  a  young 
gentleman  of  observation,  since  the  sleeves — an  art- 
ful compromise  between  long  and  short — were  rather 
a  striking  feature  to  those  who  knew.  Others  remem- 
bered her  by  her  fan  ;  but  the  callow  ones  saw  nothing 
but  her  face,  and  that  haunted  them — until  the  next 
ball. 

Mr.  Miles,  however,  was  the  favoured  man  who  was 
granted  the  first  glimpse  of  this  lovely  apparition. 
He  also  looked  only  at  her  face.  Was  she  so  very 
indignant  with  him?  Would  she  speak  to  him? 
Would  she  refuse  him  the  dances  he  had  set  his  heart 
on?  If  these  questions  were  decided  against  him  he 
was  prepared  to  humble  himself  at  her  feet;  but  he 
soon  found  there  was  no  necessity  for  that. 

For,  though  Alice  was  deeply  angry  with  Mr. 
Miles,  she  was  ten  times  angrier  with  herself,  and  ten 
times  ten  with  Dick.  Her  manner  was  certainly  cold, 
but  she  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  gross  liberty 
Miles  had  taken  in  the  afternoon;  at  any  rate,  she 

113 


At  Large 


made  no  allusion  to  it.  She  gave  him  dances — then 
and  there — since  he  brought  her  a  programme,  but  in 
doing  so  her  thoughts  were  not  of  Miles.  She  gave 
him  literal  carte  blanche,  but  not  to  gratify  herself  or 
him.  There  were  too  few  ways  open  to  her  to  punish 
the  insults  she  had  received  that  day ;  but  here  was 
one  way — unless  the  object  of  her  thoughts  stayed 
away. 

She  hurried  from  the  ballroom  at  the  sound  of 
wheels.  In  a  few  minutes  she  was  standing  at  her 
father's  side  shaking  hands  with  the  people.  She 
seemed  jubilant.  She  had  a  sunny  smile  and  a  word 
or  two  for  all.  She  was  like  a  tinkling  brook  at  sum- 
mer noon.  Everyone  spoke  of  her  prettiness,  and  her 
dress  (the  ladies  whispered  of  this),  and  above  all,  her 
splendid  spirits.  She  found  out,  when  it  was  over,  that 
she  had  shaken  hands  with  the  Edmonstones  among 
the  rest.  She  had  done  so  unconsciously,  and  Dick, 
like  everybody  else,  had  probably  received  a  charm- 
ing welcome  from  her  lips. 

If  that  was  the  case  he  must  have  taken  the  greet- 
ing for  what  it  was  worth,  for  he  seized  the  first  oppor- 
tunity to  escape  from  Fanny  and  Maurice,  who  were 
bent  upon  enjoying  themselves  thoroughly  in  unsenti- 
mental fashion.  He  saw  one  or  two  men  whom  he 
had  known  before  he  went  to  Australia,  staring  hard 
at  him,  but  he  avoided  them ;  he  shrank  into  a  corner 
and  called  himself  a  fool  for  coming. 

He  wanted  to  be  alone,  yet  was  painfully  conscious 
of  the  wretched  figure  cut  by  a  companionless  man  in 
a  room  full  of  people.  If  he  talked  to  nobody  people 
would  point  at  him.     Thus  perhaps:   "The  man  who 

114 


Dressing,   Dancing,   Looking  on 

made  a  fool  of  himself  about  Miss  Bristo,  don't  you 
know;  went  to  Australia,  made  his  fortune,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it,  and  now  she  won't  look  at  him,  poor  dog! " 
He  was  growing  morbid.  He  made  a  pretence  of 
studying  the  water-colours  on  the  wall,  and  wished  in 
his  soul  that  he  could  make  himself  invisible. 

A  slight  rustle  behind  him  caused  him  to  turn  round. 
His  heart  rose  in  his  throat;  it  was  Alice. 

"  You  must  dance  with  me,"  she  said  coldly;  and  her 
voice  was  the  voice  of  command. 

Dick  was  electrified;  he  gazed  at  her  without  speak- 
ing. Then  a  scornful  light  waxed  in  his  eyes,  and  his 
lips  formed  themselves  into  a  sneer. 

"  You  can  hardly  refuse,"  she  continued  cuttingly. 
"  I  do  not  wish  to  be  questioned  about  you ;  there  has 
been  a  little  too  much  of  that.  Therefore,  please  to 
give  me  your  arm.    They  have  already  begun." 

That  was  so;  the  room  in  which  they  stood  was 
almost  empty.    Without  a  word  Dick  gave  her  his  arm. 

The  crowd  about  the  doorway  of  the  ballroom  made 
way  for  them  to  pass,  and  a  grim  conceit  which  sug- 
gested itself  to  Dick  nearly  made  him  laugh  aloud. 

As  they  began  to  waltz  Alice  looked  up  at  him  with 
flashing  eyes. 

"  If  you  hate  this,"  she  whispered  between  her  teeth, 
"  imagine  my  feelings!  " 

He  knew  that  his  touch  must  be  like  heated  irons  to 
her;  he  wanted  her  to  stop,  but  she  would  not  let  him. 
As  the  couples  thinned  after  the  first  few  rounds  she 
seemed  the  more  eager  to  dance  on.  One  moment, 
indeed,  they  had  the  floor  entirely  to  themselves.  Thus 
everyone  in  the  room  had  an  opportunity  of  noticing 

115 


At  Large 


that  Alice  Bristo  had  given  her  first  dance  to  Dick 
Edmonstone. 

The  Colonel  saw  it,  and  was  glad;  but  he  said  to 
himself,  "  The  boy  doesn't  look  happy  enough ;  and  as 
for  Alice — that's  a  strange  expression  of  hers;  I'll  tell 
her  I  don't  admire  it.  Well,  well,  if  they  only  get  their 
quarrels  over  first,  it's  all  right,  I  suppose." 

Fanny  noted  it  with  delight.  The  one  bar  to  her 
complete  happiness  for  the  rest  of  the  evening  was  now 
removed.  The  best  of  dancers  herself,  she  was  sought 
out  by  the  best.  To  her  a  ball  was  a  thing  of  intrinsic 
delight,  in  no  way  connected  with  sentiment  or  non- 
sense. 

Mrs.  Parish  also  saw  it,  but  from  a  very  different 
point  of  view.  She  bustled  over  to  Mr.  Miles,  who  was 
standing  near  the  piano,  and  asked  him  confidentially 
if  he  had  not  secured  some  dances  with  Alice?  He 
showed  her  his  card,  and  the  old  schemer  returned 
triumphant  to  her  niche  among  the  dowagers. 

He  followed  her,  and  wrote  his  name  on  her  empty 
card  opposite  the  first  square  dance;  a  subtle  man,  this 
Mr.  Miles. 

At  the  end  of  the  waltz  Miss  Bristo  thanked  her 
partner  coldly,  observed  below  her  breath  that  she 
should  not  trouble  him  again,  bowed — and  left  him. 

Dick  was  done  with  dancing;  he  had  not  wished  to 
dance  at  all ;  but  this  one  waltz  was  more  than  enough 
for  him — being  with  her.  Love  is  responsible  for 
strange  paradoxes. 

He  found  two  men  to  talk  to:  men  who  gloried  in 
dancing,  without  greater  aptitude  for  the  art  (for  it  is 
one)  than  elephants  shod  with  lead.    Being  notorious, 

Ii6 


Dressing,  Dancing,   Looking  on 

these  men  never  got  partners,  save  occasional  ladies 
from  remote  districts,  spending  seasons  with  suburban 
relatives.  These  men  now  greeted  Dick  more  than 
civilly,  though  they  were  accustomed  to  cut  his  brother, 
the  bank-clerk,  every  morning  of  their  lives.  They 
remembered  him  from  his  infancy;  they  heard  he  had 
done  awfully  well  abroad,  and  congratulated  him 
floridly.  They  were  anxious  to  hear  all  about  Australia. 
Dick  corrected  one  or  two  notions  entertained  by  them 
respecting  that  country.  He  assured  them  that  the 
natives  were  frequently  as  white  as  they  were.  He 
informed  them,  in  reply  to  a  question,  that  lions  and 
tigers  did  not  prowl  around  people's  premises  in  the 
majority  of  Australian  towns;  nor,  indeed,  were  those 
animals  to  be  found  in  the  Colonies,  except  in  cages. 
He  set  them  right  on  the  usual  points  of  elementary 
geography.  He  explained  the  comprehensive  meaning 
of  the  term,  "  the  bush." 

As  Dick  could  at  a  pinch  be  fluent — when  Australia 
was  the  subject — and  as  his  mood  to-night  was  suffi- 
ciently bitter,  his  intelligent  questioners  shortly  sheered 
oflF.  They  left  him  at  least  better-informed  men. 
Thereupon  Dick  returned  to  the  ballroom  with  some 
slight  access  of  briskness,  and  buried  himself  in  a  little 
knot  of  wall-flowers  of  both  sexes. 

A  dance  had  just  begun — scarcely  necessary  to  add, 
a  waltz.  Every  man  blessed  with  a  partner  hastened 
to  fling  his  unit  and  hers  into  the  whirling  throng. 
After  a  round  or  two,  half  the  couples  would  pause, 
and  probably  look  on  for  the  rest  of  the  time;  but  it 
seems  to  be  a  point  of  honour  to  begin  with  the  music. 
As  Dick  stood  watching,  his  sister  passed  quite  close 

117 


At  Large 


to  him;  she  happened  to  be  dancing  with  Maurice, 
her  very  creditable  pupil,  but  neither  of  them  saw  Dick. 
Close  behind  them  came  a  pair  of  even  better  dancers, 
who  threaded  the  moving  maze  without  a  pause  or  a 
jar  or  a  single  false  step;  they  steered  so  faultlessly  that 
a  little  path  seemed  always  to  open  before  them; 
human  teetotums,  obstacles  to  every  one  else,  seemed 
mysteriously  to  melt  at  the  graceful  approach  of  these 
two.  But,  in  fact,  it  was  impossible  to  follow  any  other 
pair  at  the  same  time,  so  great  were  the  ease,  and 
beauty,  and  harmony  of  this  pair.  They  seemed  to 
need  no  rest;  they  seemed  to  yield  themselves  com- 
pletely— no,  not  to  each  other — but  to  the  sweet  influ- 
ence of  the  dreamy  waltz. 

Dick  watched  the  pair  whose  exquisite  dancing  at- 
tracted so  much  attention;  his  face  was  blank,  but  the 
iron  was  in  his  soul.  The  other  wallflowers  also 
watched  them,  and  commented  in  whispers.  Dick 
overheard  part  of  a  conversation  between  a  young  lady 
whose  hair  was  red  (but  elaborately  arranged),  and  a 
still  younger  lady  with  hair  (of  the  same  warm  tint) 
hanging  in  a  plait,  who  was  presumably  a  sister,  not 
yet  thoroughly  "  out."  Here  is  as  much  of  it  as  he 
listened  to: 

"Oh,  how  beautifully  they  dance!" 
"  Nonsense,  child!    No  better  than  many  others." 
"  Well,  of  course,  I  don't  know  much  about  it.    But 
I  thought  they  danced  better  than  anyone  in  the  room. 
Who  are  they?" 

"  Don't  speak  so  loud.  You  know  very  well  that  is 
Miss  Bristo  herself;  the  man  is — must  be — Mr.  Ed- 
monstone." 

ii8 


Dressing,  Dancing,   Looking  on 

"Are  they  engaged?" 

"  Well,  I  believe  they  used  to  be.  He  went  out  to 
Australia  because  he  couldn't  afford  to  marry  (his 
family  were  left  as  poor  as  mice!),  but  now  he  has  come 
back  with  a  fortune,  and  of  course  it  will  be  on  again 
now.  I  used  to  know  him — to  bow  to — when  they 
lived  on  the  river ;  I  never  saw  anyone  so  much  altered, 
but  still,  that  must  be  he." 

"  Oh,  it  must!    See  how  sweet  they " 

"  Hush,  child !  You  will  be  heard.  But  you  are 
quite  right;  didn't  you  see  how " 

That  was  as  much  as  Dick  could  stand.  He  walked 
away  with  a  pale  face  and  twitching  fingers.  He 
escaped  into  the  conservatory,  and  found  a  solitary 
chair  in  the  darkest  corner.  In  three  minutes  the 
waltz  ended,  and  the  move  to  the  conservatory  was  so 
general  that  for  some  minutes  the  double  doors  were 
all  too  narrow.  Before  Dick  could  get  away,  a  yellow- 
haired  youth  with  a  pretty  partner,  less  young  than 
himself,  invaded  the  dark  corner,  and  by  their  pretty 
arrangement  of  two  chairs  effectually  blocked  Dick's 
egress.  They  were  somewhat  breathless,  having  evi- 
dently outstripped  competitors  for  this  nook  only  after 
considerable  exertion.  The  yellow-haired  youth  pro- 
ceeded to  enter  into  a  desperate  flirtation — according 
to  his  lights — with  the  pretty  girl  his  senior:  that  is  to 
say,  he  breathed  hard,  sought  and  received  permission 
to  manipulate  the  lady's  fan,  wielded  it  execrably,  and 
uttered  commonplaces  in  tones  of  ingenuous  pathos. 
The  conservatory,  the  plashing  fountain,  and  the  Chi- 
nese lantern  are  indeed  the  accepted  concomitants  of 
this  kind  of  business,  to  judge  by  that  class  of  modern 

119 


At  Large 


drawing-room  songs  which  is  its  expositor.  At  length, 
on  being  snubbed  by  the  lady  (he  had  hinted  that  she 
should  cut  her  remaining  partners  in  his  favour),  the 
young  gentleman  relapsed  with  many  sighs  into  per- 
sonal history,  which  may  have  been  cunningly  intended 
as  an  attack  on  her  sympathy,  but  more  probably  arose 
from  the  egotism  of  eighteen.  He  inveighed  against 
the  barbarous  system  of  superannuation  that  had  re- 
moved him  from  his  public  school;  inquired  repeated- 
ly, Wasn't  it  awfully  hard  lines?  but  finally  extolled  the 
freedom  of  his  present  asylum,  a  neighbouring  Army 
crammer's,  where  (he  declared)  a  fellow  was  treated 
like  a  gentleman,  not  like  a  baby.  He  was  plainly  in 
the  confidential  stage. 

All  this  mildly  amused  Dick,  if  anything;  but  pres- 
ently the  victim  of  an  evil  system  abruptly  asked  his 
partner  if  she  knew  Miss  Bristo  very  well. 

"  Not  so  very  well,"  was  the  reply;  "  but  why  do  you 
ask?" 

"  Because — between  you  and  me,  you  know — I  don't 
like  her.  She  doesn't  treat  a  fellow  half  civilly.  You 
ask  for  a  waltz,  and  she  gives  you  a  square.  Now  I 
know  she'd  waltzes  to  spare,  'cause  I  heard  her  give 
one " 

"  Oh,  so  she  snubbed  you,  eh?" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  does  almost  amount  to  that. 
By  the  bye,  is  she  engaged  to  that  long  chap  who's  been 
dancing  with  her  all  the  evening?  " 

"  I  believe  she  is ;  but " 

It  was  a  promising  "but;"  a  "but"  that  would 
become  entre  nous  with  very  little  pressing. 

"  But  what?  " 

1 20 


Dressing,   Dancing,   Looking  on 

"  It  is  a  strange  aflFair." 

"How?" 

"  Oh,  I  ought  not  to  say;  but  of  course  you  would 
never  repeat " 

"  Rather  not;  surely  you  can  trust  a  fel " 

"  Well,  then,  she  used  to  be  engaged — or  perhaps 
it  wasn't  an  absolute  engagement — to  someone  else: 
he  went  out  to  Australia,  and  made  money,  and  now 
that  he  has  come  back  she's  thrown  him  over  for  this 
Mr.  Miles,  who  also  comes  from  Australia.  I  know 
it  for  a  fact,  because  Mrs.  Parish  told  mamma  as 
much." 

"Poor  chap!    Who  is  he?" 

"  Mr.  Edmonstone ;  one  of  the  Edmonstones  who 
lived  in  that  big  house  across  the  river — surely  you 
remember?  " 

"Oh,  ah!" 

"  I  believe  he  is  here  to-night — moping  somewhere, 
I  suppose." 

"Poor  chap!  Hallo,  there's  the  music!  By  Jove! 
I  say,  this  is  awful ;  we  shall  have  to  part !  " 

They  went;  and  Dick  rose  up  with  a  bitter  smile. 
He  would  have  given  much,  very  much,  for  the  privi- 
lege of  wringing  that  young  whippersnapper's  neck. 
Yet  it  was  not  the  boy's  fault ;  some  fate  pursued  him : 
there  was  no  place  for  him — no  peace  for  him — but  in 
the  open  air. 

A  soft  midsummer's  night,  and  an  evening  breeze 
that  cooled  his  heated  temples  with  its  first  sweet 
breath.  Oh,  why  had  he  not  thought  of  coming  out 
long  ago!  He  walked  up  and  down  the  drive,  slowly 
at  first,  then  at  speed,  as  his  misery  grew  upon  him, 

121 


At  Large 


and  more  times  than  he  could  count.  The  music 
stopped,  began  again,  and  again  ceased ;  it  came  to  him 
in  gusts  as  he  passed  close  to  the  front  of  the  con- 
servatory on  his  beat.  At  last,  when  near  the  house, 
he  fancied  he  saw  a  dark  motionless  figure  crouching 
in  the  shrubbery  that  edged  the  lawn  at  the  eastern 
angle  of  the  house. 

Dick  stopped  short  in  his  walk  until  fancy  became 
certainty;  then  he  crept  cautiously  towards  the  figure. 


122 


XII 
"to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow" 

Mr.  Miles  had  written  his  name  no  fewer  than  six 
times  on  Alice's  card.  On  finding  this  out  Alice  had 
resolved  to  recognise  perhaps  half  these  engagements 
— in  any  case,  no  more  than  should  suit  her  conven- 
ience. After  her  dance  with  Dick  she  found  it  would 
suit  her  admirably  to  recognise  them  all. 

For  Dick  had  no  word  of  apology  or  regret;  in  fact, 
he  did  not  speak  at  all.  He  did  not  even  look  sorry; 
but  only  hard  and  cold  and  bitter.  It  was  not  in  the 
power  of  woman  to  treat  such  a  man  too  harshly. 

Alice  therefore  threw  herself  into  these  dances  with 
Miles  with  a  zest  which  brought  about  one  good  result: 
the  mere  physical  effort  gradually  allayed  the  fever  of 
her  spirit;  with  the  even,  rhythmical  motion  sufficient 
peace  stole  into  the  heart  of  the  girl  to  subdue  the 
passionate  tumult  of  many  hours.  To  this  tranquillity 
there  presently  succeeded  the  animation  inseparable 
from  ardent  exercise. 

While  the  music  lasted  Alice  could  scarcely  bring 
herself  to  pause;  she  seemed  never  to  tire.  Between 
the  dances  she  spoke  little  to  her  partner,  but  filled  her 
lungs  with  new  breath,  and  waited  impatiently  for  the 
striking  of  a  new  note ;  and  when  the  new  note  sounded 
she  turned  to  that  partner  with  eyes  that  may  have 

123 


At  Large 


meant  to  fill  with  gratitude,  yet  seemed  to  him  to  glow 
with  something  else. 

Once,  when  he  led  her  from  the  heated  room,  she 
fancied  many  eyes  were  upon  her.  She  heard  whispers ; 
a  murmur  scarcely  audible;  a  hum  of  wonder,  of  ad- 
miration, perhaps  of  envy.  Well,  was  she  not  to  be 
admired  and  envied?  Could  she  not  at  least  compare 
with  the  fairest  there  in  looks?  Was  there  one  with 
a  foot  more  light  and  nimble?  And  was  not  this,  her 
partner,  the  manliest  yet  most  godlike  man  that  ever 
stooped  to  grace  a  ballroom? — and  the  best  dancer  into 
the  bargain? — and  the  most  admirable  altogether? 
These  questions  were  asked  and  answered  in  one  proud 
upward  glance  as  she  swept  on  his  arm  through  the 
throng. 

"  She  never  looked  so  well  before,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Parish,  in  an  ecstatic  aside  to  Colonel  Bristo;  "so 
brilliant,  so  animated,  so  happy!  " 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  the  Colonel  answered 
shortly;  and  he  added,  with  strange  insight  in  one 
usually  so  unobservant:  "  Alice  is  not  herself  to-night." 

That  seemed  absurd  on  the  face  of  it.  Who  that 
watched  her  dancing  could  have  admitted  it  for  a 
moment?    Well,  last  of  all,  probably  her  partner. 

The  music  burst  forth  again.  The  dancers  flocked 
back  to  the  room,  Alice  and  Mr.  Miles  among  them. 
It  was  the  sixth  dance,  and  their  third  together. 

Again  they  were  dancing  together,  the  glassy  floor 
seeming  to  pass  beneath  their  feet  without  effort  of 
theirs,  the  music  beating  like  a  pulse  in  the  brain.  As 
for  Alice,  she  forgot  her  partner,  she  forgot  Dick,  she 
forgot  the  faces  that  fled  before  her  eyes  as  she  glided, 

124 


"To-Morrowj  and  To- Morrow" 

and  turned,  and  skimmed,  and  circled;  she  only  knew 
that  she  was  whirling,  whirling,  and  that  for  awhile 
her  heart  was  at  rest. 

Before  the  dance  was  fairly  over,  Miles  led  his  partner 
into  the  conservatory,  but  said  to  her:  "  We  will  go 
right  through  into  the  open  air;  it  will  be  so  much 
pleasanter."  And  he  did  not  wait  her  consent  either — 
which  was  characteristic. 

The  smooth  lawn  leading  down  to  the  river  was 
illuminated,  and  now  that  it  was  quite  dark  it  had  a 
very  eflfective  appearance,  and  was  a  charming  resort 
between  the  dances.  The  lawn  was  bounded  on  the 
right  by  the  Httle  inlet  which  has  been  mentioned. 
A  rustic  bridge  crossed  this  inlet,  leading  into  a 
meadow,  where  seven  tall  poplars,  in  rigid  rank, 
fronted  the  river.  Without  a  protest  from  the  girl. 
Miles  led  her  over  the  bridge,  and  across  the  meadow, 
and  down  to  the  river's  brim,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
stately  poplars.  Most  likely  she  did  not  heed  where 
they  were  going;  at  any  rate,  they  had  been  there  often 
enough  together  before — in  daylight. 

It  was  a  heavenly  night;  the  pale  blue  stars  were 
reflected  in  the  black  still  mirror  of  the  Thames,  the 
endless  song  of  the  weir  was  the  only  sound  that  broke 
the  absolute  stillness  of  the  meadow.  No  voices 
reached  them  from  the  house,  no  strains  of  music.  As 
though  influenced  by  the  night,  the  two  were  silent  for 
some  minutes;  then  Alice  said  lightly: 

"  I  am  glad  you  brought  me  out;  I  was  beginning  to 
stifle.  What  a  lovely  night!  But  I  thought  there 
would  be  a  moon.    When  is  there  a  moon,  Mr.  Miles?  " 

No  answer  but  a  deep  breath,  that  was  half  a  groan 
125 


At  Large 


Alice  thought.  Perhaps  she  was  mistaken.  She  could 
not  see  his  face,  unless  she  moved  away  from  him,  he 
was  so  tall.    She  repeated  the  question: 

"  I  want  to  know  when  there  will  be  a  moon.  It 
would  be  so  delicious  now,  if  it  shot  up  right  over  there, 
to  be  reflected  right  down  there — but  why  don't  you 
speak,  Mr.  Miles?" 

Still  no  answer.  She  drew  back  a  step.  He  was 
standing  like  a  monument,  tall  and  rigid,  with  his 
hands  clasped  tightly  in  front  of  him  and  his  face  turned 
slightly  upward.  He  seemed  unconscious  of  her  pres- 
ence at  his  side.  Something  in  his  motionless  attitude, 
and  the  ghastly  pallor  of  his  face  in  the  starlight,  sent  a 
thrill  of  vague  fear  to  the  heart  of  Alice.  She  drew  yet 
a  little  farther  from  him,  and  asked  timidly  if  anything 
was  the  matter. 

Slowly  he  turned  and  faced  her.  His  head  drooped, 
his  shoulders  sank  forward.  She  could  see  little  beads 
glistening  on  his  forehead.  His  hands  loosed  each 
other,  and  his  arms  were  lifted  towards  her,  only  to  be 
snatched  back,  and  folded  with  a  thud  upon  the  breast. 
There  they  seemed  to  sink  and  fall  like  logs  upon  a 
swollen  sea. 

"  Matter?  "  he  cried  in  a  low,  tremulous  voice;  then, 
pausing,  "  nothing  is  the  matter!  "  Then  in  a  whisper, 
"  Nothing  to  tell  you — now." 

A  strange  coldness  overcame  Alice — the  sense  of  an 
injury  wrought  in  her  carelessness  on  the  man  before 
her.  She  tried  to  speak  to  him,  but  could  find  no 
words.  With  a  single  glance  of  pity,  she  turned  and 
fled  to  the  house.    He  did  not  follow  her. 

So  Mrs.  Parish  had  been  right,  after  all;  and  she, 
126 


"To-Morrow,  and  To-Morrow" 

Alice — a  dozen  names  occurred  to  her  which  she  had 
heard  fastened  upon  women  who  sport  with  men's 
hearts  to  while  away  an  idle  month. 

She  reached  the  conservatory,  but  paused  on  the 
stone  steps,  with  a  hand  lightly  laid  on  the  iron  balus- 
trade— for  the  floor-level  was  some  feet  above  that  of 
the  garden-path.  The  music  was  in  full  swing  once 
more,  but  Alice's  attention  was  directed  to  another 
sound — even,  rapid,  restless  footsteps  on  the  drive. 
She  peered  in  that  direction;  for  it  was  possible,  from 
her  position  on  these  steps,  to  see  both  the  river  to  the 
left  and  the  lodge-gates  far  oflf  on  the  right — in  day- 
light. She  had  not  long  to  wait.  A  figure  crossed 
quickly  before  her,  coming  from  the  front  of  the  house: 
a  man — by  his  dress,  one  of  the  guests — and  bare- 
headed. When  he  first  appeared,  his  back  was  half- 
turned  to  her;  as  he  followed  the  bend  of  the  drive  she 
saw  nothing  but  his  back!  then  she  lost  sight  of  him 
in  the  darkness  and  the  shadows  of  the  drive.  Pres- 
ently she  heard  his  steps  returning;  he  was  perambu- 
lating a  beat.  Not  to  be  seen  by  him  as  he  neared 
the  house,  Alice  softly  opened  the  door  and  entered  the 
conservatory.  It  was  at  that  moment  quite  deserted. 
She  moved  noiselessly  to  the  southern  angle,  hid  her- 
self among  the  plants,  and  peered  through  the  glass. 
It  was  very  dark  in  this  corner,  and  the  foliage  so  thick 
that  there  was  small  chance  of  her  being  seen  from 
without.  The  solitary  figure  passed  below  her,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  glass ;  it  was  Dick :  she  had  been  sure 
of  it. 

She  watched  him  cross  and  recross  twice — thrice; 
then  she  trembled  violently,  and  the  next  time  she 

127 


At  Large 


could  not  see  him  distinctly,  because  tears — tears  of 
pity — had  started  to  her  eyes.  If  a  face — haggard, 
drawn,  white  as  death,  hopeless  as  the  grave — if  such  a 
face  is  a  sight  for  tears,  then  no  wonder  Alice  wept. 
Was  it  possible  that  this  was  he  who  landed  in  England 
less  than  a  month  ago" — so  gay,  so  successful,  so  boy- 
ish? He  looked  years  older.  The  eager  light  had  gone 
out  of  his  eyes.  His  step,  so  buoyant  then,  was  heavy 
now,  though  swift  with  the  fever  of  unrest.  He  bent 
forward  as  he  walked,  as  though  under  a  burden:  a 
month  ago  he  had  borne  no  burden.  Was  this  the 
man  she  had  loved  so  wildly  long  ago — this  wreck? 
Was  this  the  result  of  trying  to  rule  her  heart  by  her 
head?    Was  this,  then,  her  handiwork? 

Her  cup  to-night  was  to  be  filled  to  overflowing. 
Even  now  her  heart  had  gone  out  in  pity  to  another 
whom  also  she  had  wronged — in  pity,  but  not  in  love. 
For  here,  at  last — at  this  moment — she  could  see  before 
her  but  one:  the  man  who  had  loved  her  so  long  and 
so  well;  the  man  who  had  once  held  her  perfect  sun 
of  love — Heaven  help  her,  who  held  it  still! 

A  faintness  overcame  this  frail  girl.  Her  frame 
shook  with  sobs.  She  could  not  see.  She  leant  heavily 
against  the  framework  of  the  glass.  She  must  have 
fallen,  but  a  gentle  hand  at  that  moment  was  thrust 
under  her  arm. 

"  Oh,  fancy  finding  you  here !  Your  father  sent 
me — "  the  pleasant  voice  broke  ofif  suddenly,  and  Alice 
felt  herself  caught  in  strong  and  tender  arms.  She 
looked  up  and  saw  Dick's  sister.  Her  poor  beating 
heart  gave  one  bound,  and  then  her  head  sank  on 
Fanny's  shoulder. 

128 


'^To-Morrow,  and  To-Morrow" 

Presently  she  was  able  to  whisper: 
"  Take  me  up-stairs;  I  am  ill.    It  has  been  a  terrible 
day  for  me !  " 

Mr.  Miles  still  stood  by  the  river,  erect,  motionless; 
his  powerful  hands  joined  in  front  of  him  in  an  iron 
knot,  his  fine  head  thrown  slightly  backward,  as  though 
in  defiance.  At  first  the  thoughts  in  his  mind  were 
vague.  Then,  very  slowly,  they  began  to  take  shape. 
A  little  later  his  expression  was  soft  and  full  of  hope, 
and  his  lips  kept  repeating  inaudibly  one  word:  the 
word  "  to-morrow." 

Then  in  a  moment  his  mind  was  chaos. 

There  is  nothing  more  confusing  to  the  brain  than 
memory.  Often  there  is  nothing  so  agonising  and  un- 
sparing in  its  torture,  when  memory  preys  upon  the 
present,  consuming  all  its  peace  and  promise  like  some 
foul  vampire.  Miles  was  now  in  the  clutch  of  memory 
in  its  form  of  monster.  His  teeth  were  clenched,  his 
face  livid,  the  veins  on  his  forehead  standing  out  like  the 
spreading  roots  of  an  oak.  Spots  of  blood  stood  under 
the  nails  of  his  clenched  fingers. 

The  stars  blinked  high  overhead,  and  the  stars  deep 
down  in  the  tranquil  water  answered  them.  The  voice 
of  the  weir  seemed  nearer  and  louder.  A  gentle  breeze 
stirred  the  line  of  poplars  by  the  river's  brink  in  the 
meadow,  and  fanned  the  temples  of  the  motionless  man 
at  their  feet.  A  bat  passed  close  over  him,  lightly 
touching  his  hair  with  its  wing.     Miles  did  not  stir. 

Slowly — as  it  were,  limb  by  limb — he  was  freeing 
himself  from  the  grip  of  the  hideous  past.  At  last, 
with  a  sudden  gesture,  he  flung  back  his  head,  and  his 

129 


At  Large 


eyes  gazed  upward  to  the  zenith.  It  was  an  awful 
gaze:  a  vision  of  honour  and  happiness  beyond  a  nar- 
row neck  of  crime — a  gUmpse  of  heaven  across  the 
gulf  of  hell. 

His  tongue  articulated  the  word  that  had  trembled 
on  his  lips  before:  now  it  embodied  a  fixed  resolve — 
"  To-morrow !  to-morrow !  " 

Mr.  Miles  became  suddenly  aware  that  his  name 
was  being  spoken  somewhere  in  the  distance  by  a  voice 
he  knew — young  Edmonstone's,  A  moment  later  the 
speaker  was  with  him,  and  had  added: 

"  There  is  someone  who  wants  to  speak  to  you, 
standing  outside  the  gate." 

There  was  a  gleam  of  triumph  in  the  younger  man's 
eyes  that  shot  out  from  the  misery  of  his  face  like 
lightning  from  a  cloud,  throwing  that  misery  into 
stronger  relief.  Miles  noted  this  swift  gleam,  and  it 
struck  terror  into  his  heart — at  this  moment,  more 
than  terror.  He  was  as  a  general  who,  on  the  eve  of 
the  brilliant  stroke  that  is  to  leave  him  conqueror, 
hears  the  alarm  sounded  in  his  own  rearguard.  He 
stared  Dick  up  and  down  for  some  moments.  When 
he  spoke,  it  was — to  the  ear — with  perfect  coolness: 

"Thanks.  I  half-expected  something  of  the  kind; 
but  it  is  an  infernal  nuisance  to-night.  I  must  get 
a  coat  and  hat,  for  I  may  have  to  go  up  to  town  at 
once."     And  he  strode  away. 

Dick  watched  him  out  of  sight,  admiring  more  than 
anything  he  had  seen  in  this  man  his  readiness  and 
resource  at  this  moment.  He  would  have  liked  to 
follow  Miles,  and  keep  him  within  reach  or  sight;  but 

130 


"To-Morrow,  and  To-Morrow" 

those  were  not  his  directions.  Instead,  he  crossed  the 
bridge,  at  once  bore  to  the  left,  and  crept  into  the 
shrubbery.  Keeping  close  to  the  wall,  without  stirring 
a  single  leaf,  he  gained  a  spot  within  ten  paces  of  the 
gate,  whence  he  could  command  most  of  the  drive  and 
a  fair  slice  of  the  road.  In  a  minute  Miles  approached 
at  a  swinging  walk.  He  passed  close  to  Dick,  and 
so  through  the  gate.  At  that  moment  a  man  emerged 
from  the  shadows  at  the  other  side  of  the  road;  it  was 
the  man  Dick  had  discovered  in  the  shrubbery,  though 
he  had  seen  him  before — in  the  Settler's  Hut! 

The  two  men  were  now  but  a  few  paces  apart ;  with 
little  more  than  a  yard  between  them,  they  stopped. 
A  low  chuckle  escaped  one  of  them;  but  without 
another  sound  they  turned — passed  slowly  down  the 
road,  side  by  side,  and  so  out  of  sight. 

Dick  gasped:  it  was  so  very  unlike  his  precon- 
ceived notions  of  arrest! 


131 


XIII 

IN   BUSHEY   PARK 

"  So  boss,  you  know  me?  " 

"I  have  not  forgotten  you,  you  scoundrel!" 

Such  was  the  interchange  of  greetings  between  the 
man  from  the  Exhibition  and  Mr.  Miles,  the  Aus- 
tralian. They  had  halted  at  a  lamp-post  some  distance 
down  the  road,  and  stood  facing  each  other  in  the 
gaslight. 

"  That's  right.  I'm  glad  you  don't  forget  old 
mates,"  said  the  stout,  round-shouldered  man.  "  That's 
one  good  thing,  anyway;  but  it's  a  bad'un  to  go  call- 
ing them  names  first  set-ofif,  especially  when " 

"  Look  here,"  interrupted  Miles,  with  an  admirable 
imitation  of  his  ordinary  tone;  "I  haven't  much 
time  to  give  you,  my  man.  How  the  deuce  did  you 
get  here?  And  what  the  deuce  do  you  want  with 
me?" 

"  Oh,  so  you're  in  a  hurry,  are  you?  "  sneered  the 
man.  "  And  you  want  to  get  back  to  the  music,  and 
the  wine,  and  the  women,  do  you?" 

"  Listen!  "  said  Miles  smoothly;  "  do  you  hear  that 
step  in  the  distance?  It's  coming  nearer;  it's  the 
policeman,  for  certain;  and  if  you  don't  get  your  busi- 
ness stated  and  done  with  before  he  reaches  us,  I'll 

132 


In  Bushey  Park 


give  you  in  charge.  Nothing  simpler:  I  know  the 
men  on  this  beat,  and  they  know  me." 

"  Not  so  well  as  I  do,  I  reckon !  "  returned  the  other 
dryly,  and  with  the  quiet  insolence  of  confident 
security.  "  And  so  you're  the  fine  gentleman  now, 
are  you?  " 

"  If  you  like — and  for  all  you  can  prove  to  the  con- 
trary." 

"The  Australian  gentleman  on  a  trip  home,  eh? 
Good ;  very  good !    And  your  name  is  Miles !  " 

"  It's  worth  your  neck  to  make  it  anything  else?  " 

The  other  thrust  forward  his  face,  and  the  beady 
eyes  glittered  with  a  malignant  fire.  "  You  don't  lose 
much  time  about  coming  to  threats,  mate,"  he  snarled. 
"  P'r'aps  it'ud  be  better  if  you  waited  a  bit ;  p'r'aps  I'm 
harder  to  funk  than  you  think!.  Because  I  dare  prove 
to  the  contrary,  and  I  dare  give  you  your  right  name. 
Have  you  forgotten  it?  Then  I'll  remind  you;  and 
your  friend  the  bobby  shall  hear  too,  now  he's  come 
so  close.  How's  this,  then? — Edward  Ryan,  otherwise 
Ned  the  Ranger;  otherwise — and  known  all  over  the 
world,  this  is — otherwise — " 

Miles  stopped  him  with  a  rapid,  fierce  gesture,  at 
the  same  time  quietly  sliding  his  left  hand  within  his 
overcoat.  He  felt  for  his  revolver.  It  was  not  there. 
He  recalled  the  circumstance  which  had  compelled 
him  to  lay  it  aside.  It  seemed  like  Fate:  for  months 
that  weapon  had  never  been  beyond  the  reach  of  his 
hand;  now,  for  the  first  time,  he  required  it,  and  was 
crippled  for  want  of  it.  He  recovered  his  composure 
in  a  moment,  but  not  before  his  discomfiture  had  been 
noticed,  and  its  cause  shrewdly  guessed.     Laying  a 

133 


At  Large 


heavy  hand  on  the  other's  broad,  rounded  shoulder, 
he  said  simply  and  impressively: 

"Hush!" 

"  Then  let's  move  on." 

"  Where?  " 

"  Where  we  can  talk." 

The  man  pointed  across  the  road  to  a  broad  open- 
ing directly  opposite  the  lamp-post.  It  was  the  begin- 
ning of  another  road;  the  spot  where  they  stood  was 
indeed  the  junction  of  the  cross  and  down-stroke  of 
a  capital  letter  T,  of  which  the  cross  was  the  road  that 
ran  parallel  with  the  river. 

"Very  well,"  said  Miles,  with  suspicious  alacrity; 
"  but  I  must  go  back  first  to  make  some  excuse,  or 
they  will  be  sending  after  me." 

"  Then,  while  you  are  gone,  I  shall  confide  in  your 
friend  the  policeman." 

Miles  uttered  a  curse,  and  led  the  way  across  the 
road  and  straight  on.  There  were  no  lamps  in  the 
road  they  entered  now — no  houses,  no  lights  of  any 
kind — but  on  the  right  a  tall  hedge,  and  on  the  left 
trim  posts  and  rails,  with  fields  beyond.  They  walked 
on  for  some  minutes  in  silence,  which  was  at  length 
broken  by  Miles's  unwelcome  visitor. 

"  It's  no  sort  o'  use  you  being  in  a  hurry,"  said  he. 
"  I've  found  you  out;  why  not  make  the  best  of  it?  " 

"  What  am  I  to  do  for  you  ? "  asked  Miles,  as 
smoothly  as  though  the  man  by  his  side  were  an  ordi- 
nary highway  beggar. 

"  You'll  see  in  good  time.  Sorry  I've  put  you  to 
inconvenience,  but  if  you  weren't  passing  for  what  you 
ain't  you  wouldn't  feel  It  so;  so  you  see,  Ned  Ryan, 

134 


In  Bushey  Park 


playing  the  gent  has  its  drawbacks.  Now,  after  me 
having  crossed  the  whole  blessed  world  to  speak  to 
you,  it  would  be  roughish  if  you  refused  me  your  best 
ear;  now  wouldn't  it?" 

"You  have  just  landed,  then?"  said  Miles;  and 
added,  after  a  pause,  "  I  hoped  you  were  dead." 

"  Thanks,"  returned  the  other,  in  the  tone  of  coarse 
irony  that  he  had  employed  from  the  beginning. 
"  Being  one  as  returns  good  for  evil,  I  don't  mind 
saying  I  was  never  so  glad  as  when  I  clapped  eyes  on 
you  yesterday — alive  and  safe." 

"Yesterday!    Where?" 

"  Never  mind  where.  But  I  ain't  just  landed — Oh, 
no!" 

Suddenly  Miles  stopped  short  in  his  walk.  They 
had  entered  again  the  region  of  lights  and  houses ;  the 
road  was  no  longer  dark  and  lonely;  it  had  inter- 
sected the  highroad  that  leads  to  Kingston,  and 
afterwards  bent  in  curves  to  the  right;  now  its  left 
boundary  was  the  white  picket-fence  of  the  railway, 
and,  a  hundred  yards  beyond,  a  cluster  of  bright  lights 
indicated  Teddington  station. 

"  Not  a  step  further,"  said  Miles. 

"  What!  not  to  the  station?    How  can  we  talk — " 

"  You  are  a  greater  fool  than  I  took  you  for,"  said 
Miles  scornfully. 

"  Yes?  Well,  anyway,  I  mean  to  say  what  I've  got 
to  say,  wherever  it  is,"  was  the  dogged  reply.  "  If  you 
came  to  town  to  my  lodging,  not  a  soul  could  disturb 
us.    We  can't  talk  here." 

Miles  hesitated. 

"  There  is  a  place,  five  minutes'  walk  from  here,  that 

135 


At  Large 


I  would  trust  before  any  room,"  he  said  presently. 
"  Only  be  reasonable,  my  good  fellow,  and  I'll  hear 
what  you  have  to  say  there." 

The  man  turned  his  head  and  glanced  sharply  in 
the  direction  whence  they  had  come.  Then  he  as- 
sented. 

Miles  led  the  way  over  the  wooden  footbridge  that 
spans  the  line  a  little  way  above  the  station.  In  three 
minutes  they  walked  in  the  shadow  of  great  trees. 
The  high  wall  in  front  of  them  bent  inwards,  opening 
a  wide  mouth.  Here  were  iron  gates  and  lamps;  and 
beyond,  black  forms  and  deep  shadows,  and  the  silence 
of  sleeping  trees.  Without  a  word  they  passed  through 
the  gates  into  Bushey  Park. 

Miles  chose  the  left  side  of  the  avenue,  and  led  on 
under  the  spreading  branches  of  the  horse-chestnuts. 
Perhaps  a  furlong  from  the  gates  he  stopped  short, 
and  confronted  his  companion. 

"  Here  I  will  settle  with  you,"  he  said,  sternly.  "  Tell 
me  what  you  want;  or  first,  if  you  like,  how  you  found 
me.  For  the  last  thing  I  remember  of  you,  Jem  Pound, 
is  that  I  sacked  you  from  our  little  concern — for  mur- 
der." 

The  man  took  a  short  step  forward,  and  hissed  back 
his  retort: 

"  And  the  last  thing  I  heard  of  you — was  your 
sticking  up  the  Mount  Clarence  bank,  and  taking  five 
hundred  ounces  of  gold !  You  were  taken ;  but  escaped 
the  same  night — with  the  swag.  That's  the  last  I  heard 
of  you — Ned  Ryan' — Ned  the  Ranger — Sundown !  " 

"  I  can  hang  you  for  that  murder,"  pursued  Miles, 
as  though  he  had  not  heard  a  word  of  this  retort. 

136 


In  Bushey  Park 


"  Not  without  dragging  yourself  in  after  me,  for 
life;  which  you'd  find  the  worse  half  of  the  bargain! 
Now  listen,  Ned  Ryan;  I'll  be  plain  with  you.  I  can, 
and  mean  to,  bleed  you  for  that  gold — for  my  fair  share 
of  it." 

"  And  this  is  what  you  want  with  me? "  asked 
Miles,  in  a  tone  so  low  and  yet  so  fierce  that 
the  confidence  of  Jem  Pound  was  for  an  instant 
shaken. 

"I  want  money;  I'm  desperate — starving!"  he  an- 
swered, his  tone  sinking  for  once  into  a  whine. 

"  Starvation  doesn't  carry  a  man  half  round  the 
world." 

"  I  was  helped,"  said  Pound  darkly. 

"Who  helped  you?" 

"  All  in  good  time.  Sundown,  old  mate !  Come, 
show  me  the  colour  of  it  first." 

Miles  spread  out  his  arms  with  a  gesture  that  was 
candour  itself. 

"  I  have  none  to  give  you.  I  am  cleaned  out  my- 
self." 

"  That's  a  lie!  "  cried  Pound,  with  a  savage  oath. 

Miles  answered  with  cool  contempt: 

"  Do  you  think  a  man  clears  out  with  five  hundred 
ounces  in  his  pockets?  Do  you  think  he  could  carry 
it  ten  miles,  let  alone  two  hundred?" 

Jem  Pound  looked  hard  at  the  man  who  had  been 
his  captain  in  a  life  of  crime.  A  trace  of  the  old 
admiration  and  crude  respect  for  a  brilliant  fearless 
leader,  succeeded  though  this  had  been  by  years  of 
bitter  hatred,  crept  into  his  voice  as  he  replied: 

"You  could!     No  one  else!     No  other  man  could 

137 


At  Large 


have  escaped  at  all  as  you  did.  I  don't  know  the  thing 
you  couldn't  do!  " 

"  Fool !  "  muttered  Miles,  half  to  himself. 

"  That's  fool  number  two,"  answered  Pound  angrily. 
"  Well,  maybe  I  am  one,  maybe  I'm  not;  anyhow  I've 
done  what  a  dozen  traps  have  tried  and  failed,  and  I'll 
go  on  failing — until  I  help  them:  I've  run  you  to 
earth,  Ned  Ryan!" 

"Ah!    Well,  tell  me  how." 

"  No,  I  heard  a  footstep  just  then;  people  are  about." 

"  A  chance  passer,"  said  Miles, 

"  You  should  have  come  with  me.  Walls  are  safe 
if  you  whisper;  here  there  are  no  walls." 

"  You  are  right.  We  have  stuck  to  the  most  public 
part,  though;  follow  me  through  here." 

They  had  been  standing  between  two  noble  trees  of 
the  main  avenue.  This  avenue,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
is  composed  of  nothing  but  horse  chestnuts;  but  be- 
hind the  front  rank  on  either  side  are  four  lines  of 
limes,  forming  to  right  and  left  of  the  great  artery 
four  minor  parallel  channels.  Miles  and  his  com- 
panion, turning  inwards,  crossed  the  soft  sward  of 
the  minor  avenues,  and  emerged  on  the  more  or  less 
broken  ground  that  expands  southward  to  Hampton 
Wick.  This  tract  is  patched  in  places  with  low 
bracken,  and  dotted  in  others  with  young  trees.  It  is 
streaked  with  converging  paths — some  worn  by  the 
heavy  tread  of  men,  others  by  the  light  feet  of  the  deer, 
but  all  soft  and  grassy,  and  no  more  conspicuous  than 
the  delicate  veins  of  a  woman's  hand. 

They  left  the  trees  behind,  and  strode  on  heedlessly 
into  the  darkness.    Their  shins  split  the  dew  from  the 

138 


In  Bushey  Park 


ferns;  startled  fawns  rose  in  front  of  them  and  scam- 
pered swiftly  out  of  sight,  a  momentary  patch  of  grey 
upon  the  purple  night. 

"  This  will  suit  you,"  said  Miles,  still  striding  aim- 
lessly on.  "  It  is  a  good  deal  safer  than  houses  here. 
Now  for  your  story," 

He  was  careful  as  they  walked  to  keep  a  few  inches 
in  the  rear  of  Pound,  who,  for  his  part,  never  let  his 
right  hand  stray  from  a  certain  sheath  that  hung  from 
the  belt  under  his  coat:  the  two  men  had  preserved 
these  counter-precautions  from  the  moment  they 
quitted  the  lighted  roads, 

"  It  is  soon  told,  though  it  makes  me  sweat  to  think 
of  it — all  but  the  end,  and  that  was  so  mighty  neat 
the  rest's  of  no  account,"  Pound  began,  with  a  low 
laugh.  "  Well,  you  turned  me  adrift,  and  I  lived  Hke 
a  hunted  dingo  for  very  near  a  year.  If  I'd  dared  to 
risk  it,  I'd  have  blabbed  on  you  quick  enough;  but 
there  was  no  bait  about  Queen's  evidence,  and  I 
daren't  let  on  a  word  else — you  may  thank  the  devil 
for  that,  not  me!  Well,  I  had  no  money,  but  I  got 
some  work  at  the  stations,  though  in  such  mortal  ter- 
ror that  I  daren't  stay  long  in  one  place,  until  at  last 
I  got  a  shepherd's  billet,  with  a  hut  where  no  one  saw 
me  from  week's  end  to  week's  end.  There  I  was  safe, 
but  in  hell!  I  daren't  lay  down  o'  nights;  when  I  did 
I  couldn't  sleep.  I  looked  out  o'  the  door  twenty 
times  a  night  to  see  if  they  were  coming  for  me.  I  saw 
frightful  things,  and  heard  hellish  sounds;  I  got  the 
horrors  without  a  drop  o'  liquor!  You  did  all  this, 
Ned  Ryan— you  did  it  all!  " 

Inflamed  by  the  memory  of  his  torments,  Pound 
139 


At  Large 


raised  his  voice  in  rage  and  hate  that  a  single  day  had 
exalted  from  impotency  to  might.  But  rage  red-hot 
only  aggravates  the  composure  of  a  cool  antagonist, 
and  the  reply  was  cold  as  death : 

"  Blame  yourself.  If  you  had  kept  clean  hands,  you 
might  have  stuck  to  us  to  the  end ;  as  it  was,  you  would 
have  swung  the  lot  of  us  in  another  month.  No  man 
can  accuse  me  of  spilling  blood — nor  poor  Hickey 
either,  for  that  matter;  but  you — I  could  dangle  you 
to-morrow!  Remember  that,  Jem  Pound;  and  go  on." 

"  I'll  remember  a  bit  more — you'll  see !  "  returned 
Pound  with  a  stifled  gasp.  He  was  silent  for  the  next 
minute;  then  added  in  the  tone  of  one  who  bides  his 
time  to  laugh  last  and  loudest:  "Go  on?  Right! 
Well,  then,  after  a  long  time  I  showed  my  nose  in  a 
town,  and  no  harm  came  of  it." 

"What  town?" 

"  Townsville." 

"  Why  Townsville?  "  Miles  asked  quickly. 

"  Your  good  lady  was  there ;  I  knew  she  would  give 
me — well,  call  it  assistance." 

"  That  was  clever  of  you,"  said  Miles  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  but  his  calm  utterance  was  less  natural 
than  before. 

"I  wanted  a  ship,"  Pound  continued;  "and  could 
have  got  one  too,  through  being  at  sea  before  at  odd 
times,  if  I'd  dared  loaf  about  the  quay  by  day.  Well, 
one  dark  night  I  was  casting  my  eyes  over  the  Torres 
Straits  mail  boat,  when  a  big  man  rushed  by  me  and 
crept  on  board  like  a  cat.  I  knew  it  was  you  that 
moment ;  I'd  heard  of  your  escape.  You'd  your  swag 
with  you;  the  gold  was  in  it — I  knew  it!    What's  the 

140 


In  Bushey  Park 


use  of  shaking  your  head?  Of  course  it  was.  Well, 
first  I  pushed  forward  to  speak  to  you,  then  I  drew 
back.  Why?  Because  just  then  you'd  have  thought 
no  more  of  knocking  me  on  the  head  and  watching 
me  drown  before  your  eyes  than  I'd  think  of " 

"  Committing  another  murder!  By  heaven,  I  wish 
I  had  had  the  chance !  "  muttered  Miles. 

"  Then,  if  I'd  started  the  hue  and  cry,  it  would  have 
meant  killing  the  golden  goose* — and  most  likely  me 
with  it.  I  thought  of  something  better:  I  saw  you 
drop  down  into  the  hold — there  was  too  much  risk 
in  showing  your  money  for  a  passage  or  trying  for  a 
fo'c'stle  berth;  the  boat  was  to  sail  at  daylight.  I 
rushed  to  your  wife  and  told  her;  but  her  cottage  was 
three  miles  out  of  the  town,  worse  luck  to  it!  and  when 
I  got  her  to  the  quay,  you  were  under  way  and  nearly 
out  of  sight — half-an-hour  late  in  sailing,  and  you'd 
have  had  a  friend  among  the  passengers!  " 

"And  what  then?" 

"Why,  then  your  wife  was  mad!  I  soothed  her: 
she  told  me  that  she  had  some  money,  and  I  told  her 
if  she  gave  me  some  of  it  I  might  still  catch  you  for 
her.  I  showed  her  how  the  mail  from  Sydney,  by 
changing  at  Brindisi,  would  land  one  in  England  before 
the  Queensland  boat.  I  knew  it  was  an  off-chance 
whether  you  ever  meant  to  reach  England  at  all,  or 
whether  you'd  succeed  if  you  tried;  but,"  said  Pound, 
lowering  his  voice  unaccountably,  "  I  was  keen  to  be 
quit  of  the  country  myself.  Here  was  my  chance,  and 
I  took  it;  your  wife  shelled  out,  and  I  lost  no  time." 

The  man  ceased  speaking,  and  looked  sharply  about 
him.    His  eyes  were  become  thoroughly  used  to  the 

141 


At  Large 


darkness,  so  that  he  could  see  some  distance  all  round 
with  accuracy  and  ease;  but  they  were  eyes  no  less 
keen  than  quick;  and  so  sure-sighted  that  one  glance 
was  at  all  times  enough  for  them,  and  corroboration 
by  a  second  a  thing  unthought  of. 

They  were  walking,  more  slowly  now,  on  a  soft 
mossy  path,  and  nearing  a  small  plantation,  chiefly  of 
pines  and  firs,  half-a-mile  from  the  avenues.  This  path, 
as  it  approaches  the  trees,  has  beside  it  several  saplings 
shielded  by  tall  triangular  fences,  which  even  in  day- 
light would  afiford  very  fair  cover  for  a  man's  body. 
Miles  and  Pound  had  passed  close  to  half-a-dozen  or 
more  of  these  triangles. 

"Well?"  said  Miles;  for  Pound  remained  silent. 

"  I  am  looking  to  see  where  you  have  brought  me." 

"  I  have  brought  you  to  the  best  place  of  all,  this 
plantation,"  Miles  answered,  leaving  the  path  and 
picking  his  way  over  the  uneven  ground  until  there 
were  trees  all  round  them.  "  Here  we  should  be 
neither  seen  nor  heard  if  we  stayed  till  daybreak.  Are 
you  going  on?  " 

But  Pound  was  not  to  be  hurried  until  he  had  picked 
out  a  spot  to  his  liking  still  deeper  in  the  plantation; 
far  from  shaking  his  sense  of  security,  the  trees  seemed 
to  afford  him  unexpected  satisfaction.  The  place  was 
dark  and  silent  as  the  tomb,  though  the  eastern  wall 
of  the  park  was  but  three  hundred  yards  distant. 
Looking  towards  this  wall  in  winter,  a  long,  unbroken 
row  of  gaslights  marks  the  road  beyond;  but  in  sum- 
mer the  foliage  of  the  lining  trees  only  reveals  a  casual 
glimmer,  which  adds  by  contrast  to  the  solitude  of  this 
sombre,  isolated,  apparently  uncared-for  coppice, 

142 


In  Bushey  Park 


"  I  reached  London  just  before  you,"  resumed 
Pound,  narrowly  watching  the  effect  of  every  word. 
"  I  waited  for  your  boat  at  the  docks.  There  were 
others  waiting.  I  had  to  take  care — they  were  de- 
tectives." 

Miles  uttered  an  ejaculation. 

"  I  watched  them  go  on  board;  I  watched  them  come 
back — without  you.  They  were  white  with  disappoint- 
ment. Ned  Ryan,  those  men  would  sell  their  souls  to 
lay  hands  on  you  now!" 

"  Go  on!  "  said  Miles  between  his  teeth. 

"  Well,  I  got  drinking  with  the  crew,  and  found 
you'd  fallen  overboard  coming  up  Channel — so  they 
thought;  it  happened  in  the  night.  But  you've  swum 
swollen  rivers,  before  my  eyes,  stronger  than  I  ever 
see  man  swim  before  or  since,  and  I  was  suspicious. 
Ships  get  so  near  the  land  coming  up  Channel.  I  went 
away  and  made  sure  you  were  alive,  if  I  could  find 
you.     At  last,  by  good  luck,  I  did  find  you." 

"Where?" 

"  At  the  Exhibition.  I  took  to  loafing  about  the 
places  you  were  sure  to  go  to,  sooner  or  later,  as  a 
swell,  thinking  yourself  safe  as  the  Bank.  And  that's 
where  I  found  you — the  swell  all  over,  sure  enough. 
You  stopped  till  the  end,  and  that's  how  I  lost  you  in 
the  crowd  going  out;  but  before  that  I  got  so  close 
I  heard  what  you  were  saying  to  your  swell  friends: 
how  you'd  bring  'em  again,  if  they  liked;  what  you'd 
missed  that  day,  but  must  see  then.  So  I  knew  where 
to  wait  about  for  you.  But  you  took  your  time  about 
coming  again.  Every  day  I  was  waiting  and  watching 
— and  starving.     A  shilling  a  day  to  let  me  into  the 

H3 


At  Large 


place;  a  quid  in  reserve  for  when  the  time  came;  and 
pence  for  my  meals.  Do  you  think  a  trifie'll  pay  for 
all  that?  When  you  did  turn  up  again  yesterday,  you 
may  lay  your  life  I  never  lost  sight  of  you." 

"  I  should  have  known  you  any  time;  why  you  went 
about  in  that  rig " 

"  I  had  no  others.  I  heard  fools  whisper  that  I  was 
a  detective,  moreover,  and  that  made  me  feel  safe." 

"  You  followed  me  down  here  yesterday,  did  you? 
Then  why  do  nothing  till  to-night?" 

The  fellow  hesitated,  and  again  peered  rapidly  into 
every  corner  of  the  night. 

"  Why  did  you  wait?  "  repeated  Miles  impatiently. 

An  evil  grin  overspread  the  countenance  of  Jem 
Pound.  He  seemed  to  be  dallying  with  his  answer — 
rolling  the  sweet  morsel  on  his  tongue — as  though  loth 
to  part  with  the  source  of  so  much  private  satisfaction. 
Miles  perceived  something  of  this,  and,  for  the  first 
time  that  night,  felt  powerless  to  measure  the  extent 
of  his  danger.  Up  to  this  point  he  had  realised  and 
calculated  to  a  nicety  the  strength  of  the  hold  of  this 
man  over  him,  and  he  had  flattered  himself  that  it  was 
weak  in  comparison  with  his  own  counter-grip;  but 
now  he  suspected,  nay  felt,  the  nearness  of  another  and 
a  stronger  hand. 

"  Answer,  man,"  he  cried,  with  a  scarcely  perceptible 
tremor  in  his  voice,  "before  I  force  you!  Why  did 
you  wait?" 

"  I  went  back,"  said  Pound  slowly,  slipping  his  hand 
beneath  his  coat,  and  comfortably  grasping  the  haft 
of  his  sheath-knife,  "  to  report  progress." 

"  To  whom?  " 

144 


In  Bushey  Park 


"To— your  wife!" 

"What!" 

"Your  wife!" 

"  You  are  lying,  my  man,"  said  Miles,  with  a  forced 
laugh.    "  She  never  came  to  England." 

"  She  didn't,  didn't  she?  Why,  of  course  you  ought 
to  know  best,  even  if  you  don't;  but  if  you  asked  me, 
1  should  say  maybe  she  isn't  a  hundred  miles  from  you 
at  this  very  instant!  " 

"  Speak  that  lie  again,"  cried  Miles,  his  low  voice 
now  fairly  quivering  with  passion  and  terror,  "  and  I 
strike  you  dead  where  you  stand!  She  is  in  Australia, 
and  you  know  it!  " 

Jem  Pound  stepped  two  paces  backward,  and  an- 
swered in  a  loud,  harsh  tone: 

"You  fool!  she  is  here!" 

Miles  stepped  forward  as  if  to  carry  out  his  threat; 
but  even  as  he  moved  he  heard  a  rustle  at  his  side,  and 
felt  a  light  hand  laid  on  his  arm.  He  started,  turned, 
and  looked  round.  There,  by  his  side — poverty- 
stricken  almost  to  rags,  yet  dark  and  comely  as  the 
summer's  night — stood  the  woman  whom  years  ago  he 
had  made  his  wife! 

A  low  voice  full  of  tears  whispered  his  name:  "  Ned, 
Ned!  "  and  "  Ned,  Ned!  "  again  and  again. 

He  made  no  answer,  but  stood  like  a  granite  pillar, 
staring  at  her.  She  pressed  his  arm  with  one  hand, 
and  laid  the  other  caressingly  on  his  breast ;  and  as  she 
stood  thus,  gazing  up  through  a  mist  into  his  stern, 
cold  face,  this  topmost  hand  rested  heavily  upon  him. 
To  him  it  seemed  like  lead;  until  suddenly — did  it  press 
a  bruise  or  a  wound,  that  such  a  hideous  spasm  should 

145 


At  Large 


cross  his  face?  that  he  should  shake  off  the  woman  so 
savagely? 

By  the  merest  accident,  the  touch  of  one  woman  had 
conjured  the  vision  of  another;  he  saw  before  him  two, 
not  one;  two  as  opposite  in  their  impressions  on  the 
senses  as  the  flower  and  the  weed;  as  separate  in 
their  associations  as  the  angels  of  light  and  dark- 
ness. 

Yet  this  poor  woman,  the  wife,  could  only  creep 
near  him  again — forgetting  her  repulse,  since  he  was 
calm  the  next  moment — and  press  his  hand  to  her  hps, 
so  humbly  that  now  he  stood  and  bore  it,  and  repeat 
brokenly: 

"  I  have  found  him!  Oh,  thank  God!  Now  at  last 
I  have  found  him! " 

While  husband  and  wife  stood  thus,  silenced — one 
by  love,  the  other  by  sensations  of  a  very  different 
kind — ^^the  third  person  watched  them  with  an  expres- 
sion which  slowly  changed  from  blank  surprise  to  mor- 
tification and  dumb  rage.  At  last  he  seemed  unable 
to  stand  it  any  longer,  for  he  sprang  forward  and  whis- 
pered hoarsely  in  the  woman's  ear: 

"  What  are  you  doing?  Are  you  mad?  What  are 
we  here  for?  What  have  we  crossed  the  sea  for?  Get 
to  work,  you  fool,  or " 

"To  work  to  bleed  me,  between  you!"  cried  Ned 
Ryan,  shaking  himself  again  clear  of  the  woman.  "  By 
heaven,  you  shall  find  me  a  stone !  " 

Elizabeth  Ryan  turned  and  faced  her  ally,  and  waved 
him  back  with  a  commanding  gesture. 

"  No,  Jem  Pound,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  as  clear  and 
true  as  a  clarion,  "  it  is  time  to  tell  the  truth ;  I  did  not 

146 


In  Bushey  Park 


come  to  England  for  that!  O  Ned,  Ned!  I  have  used 
this  man  as  my  tool — can't  you  see? — to  bring  me  to 
you.  Ned,  my  husband,  I  am  by  your  side;  have  you 
no  word  of  welcome?" 

She  clung  to  him,  with  supplication  in  her  white 
face  and  drooping,  nerveless  figure ;  and  Pound  looked 
on  speechless.  So  he  had  been  fooled  by  this  smooth- 
tongued, fair-faced  trash;  and  all  his  plans  and  schemes, 
and  hungry  longings  and  golden  expectations,  were 
to  crumble  into  dust  before  treachery  such  as  this! 
So,  after  all,  he  had  been  but  a  dupe — a  ladder  to  be 
used  and  kicked  aside!  A  burning  desire  came  over 
him  to  plunge  his  knife  into  this  false  demon's  heart, 
and  end  all. 

But  Ryan  pushed  back  his  wife  a  third  time,  gently 
but  very  firmly. 

"  Come,  Liz,"  said  he,  coldly  enough,  yet  with  the 
edge  olT  his  voice  and  manner,  "  don't  give  us  any  of 
this.  This  was  all  over  between  us  long  ago.  If  it's 
money  you  want,  name  a  sum;  though  I  have  little 
enough,  you  shall  have  what  I  can  spare,  for  I  swear 
to  you  I  got  away  with  my  life  and  little  else.  But  if 
it's  sentiment,  why,  it's  nonsense;  and  you  know  that 
well  enough." 

Elizabeth  Ryan  stood  as  one  stabbed,  who  must  fall 
the  moment  the  blade  is  withdrawn  from  the  wound; 
which  office  was  promptly  performed  by  one  who 
missed  few  opportunities. 

"  Why,  of  course!  "  exclaimed  Pound,  with  affected 
sympathy  with  the  wife  and  indignation  against  the 
husband.  "  To  be  sure  you  see  how  the  wind  lies, 
missis?" 

147 


At  Large 


"  What  do  you  mean? "  cried  Elizabeth  Ryan 
fiercely. 

"  Can't  you  see?  "  pursued  Pound  in  the  same  tone, 
adding  a  strong  dash  of  vulgar  familiarity;  "  can't  you 
see  that  you're  out  of  the  running,  Liz,  my  lass?  You 
may  be  Mrs.  Ryan,  but  Mrs.  Ryan  is  a  widow;  there's 
no  Ned  Ryan  now.  There's  a  Mr.  Miles,  an  Australian 
gentleman,  in  his  skin,  and,  mark  me,  there'll  be  a 
Mrs.—" 

He  stopped,  for  Liz  Ryan  turned  on  him  so  fiercely 
that  it  looked  as  though  she  was  gathering  herself  to 
spring  at  his  throat. 

"  You  liar!  "  she  shrieked.  "  Tell  him,  Ned!  Give 
him  the  lie  yourself!  Quickly — speak,  or  I  shall  go 
mad!" 

Her  husband  uttered  no  sound. 

"  He  can't,  you  see,"  sneered  Pound.  "  Why,  if 
you'd  only  come  in  with  me  into  the  garden,  you'd 
have  seen  the  two  together  sweethearting  in  the  star- 
light!" 

"  If  I  had,"  said  Mrs.  Ryan,  trembling  violently,  "  I 
pity  both.  But  no,  I  don't  beHeve  it!  O  Ned!  Ned! 
answer,  unless  you  want  to  break  my  heart!  " 

"  Well,  well,  what  does  it  matter?  "  put  in  Pound 
hastily,  speaking  to  her  in  a  fatherly,  protective  tone, 
which  hit  the  mark  aimed  at.  "Liz,  my  dear,  you  and  1 
have  been  good  friends  all  this  time ;  then  why  not  let 
him  go  his  ways? — after  we've  got  our  rights,  I  mean." 

Ned  Ryan  glanced  sharply  from  his  wife  to  the  man 
who  had  brought  her  from  Australia;  and  then  he 
spoke : 

"  My  good  woman,  why  not  be  frank?  What's  the 
148 


In  Bushey  Park 


use  of  acting  a  part  to  me?  Anyway,  it's  a  bit  too  thin 
this  time.  Only  let  me  alone,  and  you  two  can  go  on 
— as  you  are.  Come  now,  I  don't  think  I'm  hard  on 
you ;  considering  everything  I  might  be  a  deal  harder." 

His  wife  sprang  before  him,  her  black  eyes  flashing, 
her  whole  frame  quivering. 

"  Edward  Ryan,  you  shall  answer  for  these  foul, 
cruel  words  before  Him  who  knows  them  to  be  false. 
What  do  you  think  me,  I  wonder?  That  vile  thing 
there — can't  you  see  how  I  have  used  him? — he  has 
been  the  bridge  between  me  and  you,  yet  you  make 
him  the  barrier!  Oh,  you  know  me  better  than  that, 
Ned  Ryan!  You  know  me  for  the  woman  who  sacri- 
ficed all  for  you' — who  stood  by  you  through  thick  and 
thin,  and  good  and  bad,  while  you  would  let  her — who 
would  not  have  forsaken  you  for  twenty  murders!^ 
who  loved  you  better  than  life — God  help  me !  "  cried 
the  poor  woman,  wildly,  "  for  I  love  you  still!  " 

She  rose  the  next  moment,  and  continued  in  a  low, 
hard,  changed  voice: 

"  But  love  and  hate  lie  close  together;  take  care, 
and  do  not  make  me  hate  you,  for  if  you  do  I  shall  be 
pitiless  as  I  have  been  pitiful,  cruel  as  I  have  been 
fond.  I,  who  have  been  ready  all  these  years  to  shield 
you  with  my  life — I  shall  be  the  first  to  betray  you  to 
the  laws  you  have  cheated,  if  you  turn  my  love  to  hate. 
Ned!  Ned!  stop  and  think  before  it  is  too  late!  " 

She  pressed  both  hands  upon  her  heart,  as  if  to  stay 
by  main  force  its  tumultuous  beating.  Her  limbs  tot- 
tered beneath  her.  Her  face  was  like  death.  Her  Hfe's 
blood  might  have  mingled  with  the  torrent  of  her 
eloquence! 

149 


At  Large 


"  You  are  beside  yourself,"  said  her  husband,  who 
had  listened  like  a  stone ;  "  otherwise  you  would 
remember  that  tall  talk  never  yet  answered  with  me. 
And  yet — yet  I  am  sorry  for  you — so  poor,  so  ragged, 
so  thin — "  His  voice  suddenly  softened,  and  he  felt 
with  his  hand  in  his  pocket.  "See  here!  take  these 
twenty  pounds.  It's  a  big  lump  of  all  I  have ;  but  'twill 
buy  you  a  new  dress  and  some  good  food,  and  make 
you  decent  for  a  bit,  and  if  I  had  more  to  spare,  upon 
my  soul  you  should  have  it!  " 

Elizabeth  Ryan  snatched  the  notes  from  her  hus- 
band's hand,  crumpled  them  savagely,  and  flung  them 
at  his  feet;  with  a  wild  sweep  of  her  arm  she  tore  oflf 
her  bonnet,  as  though  it  nursed  the  fire  within  her 
brain,  and  coils  of  dark,  disordered  hair  fell  down 
about  her  shoulders.  For  one  moment  she  stood 
glaring  fixedly  at  her  husband,  and  then  fell  heavily 
to  the  ground. 

"  She  has  fainted,"  said  Miles,  not  without  pity,  and 
bending  over  her.  "  Bring  her  to,  then  lead  her  away. 
Take  her  back;  she  must  not  see  me  again." 

Pound  knelt  down,  and  quietly  pocketed  the 
crumpled  notes;  then  he  raised  the  senseless  head 
and  fanned  the  ashy  face,  looking  up  meanwhile  and 
saying: 

"  Meet  me  here  to-morrow  night  at  ten;  I  will  come 
alone." 

"  For  the  last  time,  then." 

"  I  am  agreeable ;  but  it  will  rest  with  you." 

Miles  drew  away  into  the  shadows.  He  waited,  and 
presently  he  heard  a  faint,  hollow,  passionate  voice 
calling  his  name: 

150 


In  Bushey  Park 


"  Ned  Ryan!  I  will  come  back,  Ned  Ryan!  Come 
back,  never  fear,  and  see  you — see  you  alone!  And 
if  you  are  as  hard  then — as  hard  and  cruel — Heaven 
help  us  both! — Heaven  help  us  both!  " 

When  Ned  Ryan,  alias  Sundown,  alias  Miles,  heard 
the  footsteps  fail  in  the  distance  and  die  on  the  still 
night  air,  a  rapid  change  came  over  his  face  and  bear- 
ing. Throughout  the  night  he  had  lost  his  self-com- 
mand seldom ;  his  nerve  never.  But  now  the  pallor 
of  a  corpse  made  his  features  ghastly,  and  a  cold  sweat 
burst  forth  in  great  beads  upon  his  forehead.  His 
limbs  trembled,  and  he  staggered. 

By  a  violent  effort  he  steadied  his  brain  and  straight- 
ened his  body.  In  a  few  minutes  he  had  well-nigh  re- 
gained his  normal  calm.  Then  gradually  his  chest 
expanded,  and  his  air  became  that  of  one  who  has 
climbed  through  desperate  peril  to  the  lofty  heights 
and  sweet  breath  of  freedom.  Nay,  as  he  stood  there, 
gazing  hopefully  skyward,  with  the  dim  light  upon 
his  strong  handsome  face,  he  might  very  well  have 
been  mistaken  for  a  good  man  filled  with  dauntless 
ambition,  borne  aloft  on  the  wings  of  noble  yearning. 

"  After  all,  I  am  not  lost !  "  The  thoughts  escaped 
in  words  from  the  fulness  of  his  soul.  "  No,  I  am  safe; 
he  dares  not  betray  me;  she  will  not — because  she 
loves  me.     Not  another  soul  need  ever  know." 

A  new  voice  broke  upon  his  ear: 

"You  are  wrong;  I  know!" 

His  lowered  gaze  fell  upon  the  motionless  figure  of 
Dick  Edmonstone,  who  was  standing  quietly  in  front 
of  him. 


151 


XIV 

QUITS 

For  the  second  time  that  night  Miles  felt  instinc- 
tively for  his  revolver,  and  for  the  second  time  in  vain. 

The  younger  man  understood  the  movement. 

"  A  shot  would  be  heard  in  the  road  and  at  the 
lodge,"  said  he  quietly.  "  You'll  only  hasten  matters 
by  shooting  me." 

At  once  Miles  perceived  his  advantage;  his  adversary 
believed  him  to  be  armed.  Withdrawing  his  hand  from 
the  breast  of  his  overcoat  slowly,  as  though  relinquish- 
ing a  weapon  in  the  act  of  drawing  it,  he  answered: 

"  I  believe  you  are  right.    But  you  are  a  cool  hand!  " 

"  Perhaps." 

"  I  have  only  seen  one  other  as  cool — under  fire." 

"  Indeed? " 

"  A  fact.  But  I'll  tell  you  where  you  come  out  even 
stronger." 

"  Do." 

"In  playing  the  spy.    There  you  shine!" 

"  Hardly,"  said  Dick  dryly,  and  this  time  he  added 
a  word  or  two:  "  or  I  should  have  shown  you  up  some 
time  since." 

The  two  men  faced  one  another,  fair  and  square,  but 
their  attitudes  were  not  aggressive.  Miles  leant  back 
against  a  tree  with  folded  arms,  and  Dick  stood  with 

152 


Quits 


feet  planted  firmly  and  hands  in  his  pockets.  A  com- 
bat of  coolness  was  beginning.  The  combatants  were 
a  man  in  whom  this  quality  was  innate,  and  one  who 
rose  to  it  but  rarely.  In  these  circumstances  it  is 
strange  that  the  self-possession  of  Dick  was  real  to  the 
core,  whilst  that  of  the  imperturbable  Miles  was  for 
once  affected  and  skin-deep. 

"  Will  you  tell  me,"  said  Miles,  "  what  you  have 
heard?  You  may  very  possibly  have  drawn  wrong  in- 
ferences." 

"  I  heard  all,"  Dick  answered. 

"All  is  vague;  why  not  be  specific?" 

"  I  heard  that — well,  that  that  woman  was  your 
wife." 

Miles  felt  new  hope  within  him.  Suppose  he  had 
heard  no  more  than  that !  And  he  had  not  heard  any- 
thing more — the  thing  was  self-evident — or  he  would 
not  have  spoken  first  of  this — this  circumstance  which 
must  be  confessed  "  unpleasant,"  but  should  be  ex- 
plained away  in  five  minutes;  this — what  more  natural? 
— this  consequence  of  an  ancient  peccadillo,  this  baga- 
telle in  comparison  with  what  he  might  have  learned. 

"  My  dear  sir,  it  is  nothing  but  an  infernal  lie !  "  he 
cried  with  eager  confidence ;  "  she  never  was  anything 
of  the  kind.  It  is  the  old  story :  an  anthill  of  boyish 
folly,  a  mountain  of  blackguardly  extortion.  Can't 
you  see?" 

"  No,  I  can't,"  said  Dick  stolidly. 

"  Why,  my  good  fellow,  they  have  come  over  on 
purpose  to  bleed  me — they  said  so.  It's  as  plain  as  a 
pikestaflF." 

"  That  may  be  true,  so  far  as  the  man  is  concerned." 
153 


At  Large 

"  Don't  you  see  that  the  woman  is  his  accomplice? 
But  now  a  word  with  you,  my  friend.  These  are  my 
private  affairs  that  you  have  had  the  impudence " 

"  That  was  not  all  I  heard,"  said  Dick  coldly. 

Danger  again — in  the  moment  of  apparent  security. 

"  What  else  did  you  hear,  then?  "  asked  Miles,  in  a 
voice  that  was  deep  and  faint  at  the  same  time. 

"  Who  you  are,"  replied  Dick  shortly.  "  Sundown 
the  bushranger." 

The  words  were  pronounced  with  no  particular  em- 
phasis; in  fact,  very  much  as  though  both  sobriquet 
and  calling  were  household  words,  and  sufficiently 
familiar  in  all  men's  mouths.  The  bushranger  heard 
them  without  sign  or  sound.  Dick  waited  patiently 
for  him  to  speak;  but  he  waited  long. 

It  was  a  strange  interview  between  these  two  men, 
in  the  dead  of  this  summer's  night,  in  the  heart  of  this 
public  park.  They  were  rivals  in  love;  one  had  dis- 
covered the  other  to  be  not  only  an  impostor,  but  a 
notorious  felon;  and  they  had  met  before  under  cir- 
cumstances the  most  peculiar — a  fact,  however,  of 
which  only  one  of  them  was  now  aware.  The  night 
was  at  the  zenith  of  its  soft  and  delicate  sweetness. 
A  gentle  breeze  had  arisen,  and  the  tops  of  the  slender 
firs  were  making  circles  against  the  sky,  like  the  mast- 
heads of  a  ship  becalmed;  and  the  stars  were  shining 
like  a  million  pin-pricks  in  the  purple  cloak  of  light. 
At  last  Miles  spoke,  asking  with  assumed  indifference 
what  Dick  intended  to  do. 

"  But  let  it  pass ;  of  course  you  will  inform  at  once !  " 

"  What  else  can  I  do?  "  demanded  Dick,  sternly. 

Miles  scrutinised  his  adversary  attentively  and  spec- 
154 


Quits 


ulated  whether  there  was  the  least  chance  of  fright- 
ening such  a  man.  Then  he  again  thrust  his  hand 
into  the  breast  of  his  overcoat,  and  answered  reflect- 
ively : 

"  You  can  die — this  minute — if  I  choose." 

Dick  stood  his  ground  without  moving  a  muscle. 

"Nonsense!"  he  said  scornfully.  "I  have  shown 
you  that  you  can  gain  nothing  by  that." 

Miles  muttered  a  curse,  and  scowled  at  the  ground, 
without,  however,  withdrawing  his  hand. 

"The  case  stands  thus,"  said  Dick:  "you  have  im- 
posed on  friends  of  mine,  and  I  have  found  you — not  a 
common  humbug,  as  I  thought  all  along — but  quite  a 
famous  villain.  Plainly  speaking,  a  price  is  on  your 
head." 

Miles  did  not  speak. 

"  And  your  life  is  in  my  hands." 

Miles  made  no  reply. 

"  The  natural  thing,"  Dick  continued,  "  would  have 
been  to  crawl  away,  when  I  heard  who  you  were,  and 
call  the  police.    You  see  I  have  not  done  that." 

Still  not  a  word. 

"  Another,  and  perhaps  fairer,  way  would  be  to  give 
you  a  fair  start  from  this  spot  and  this  minute,  and 
not  say  a  word  for  an  hour  or  two,  until  people  are 
about;  the  hare-and-hounds  principle,  in  fact.  But 
I  don't  mean  to  do  that  either." 

Miles  raised  his  eyes,  and  at  last  broke  his  silence. 

"  You  are  arbitrary,"  he  sneered.  "  May  I  ask  what 
is  the  special  quality  of  torture  you  have  reserved  for 
me?    I  am  interested  to  know." 

"  I  shall  name  a  condition,"  replied  Dick  firmly — "  a 

'55 


At  Large 


single  condition — on  which,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
you  may  impose  on  the  public  until  some  one  else 
unmasks  you." 

"  I  don't  believe  you !  " 

"  You  have  not  heard  my  condition.  I  am  in 
earnest." 

"  I  wouldn't  believe  you  on  oath !  " 

"And  why?" 

"  Because  you  owe  me  a  grudge,"  said  Miles,  speak- 
ing rapidly — "  because  it  is  in  your  interest  to  see  me 
go  under." 

"  My  condition  provides  for  all  that." 

"  Let  me  hear  it,  then." 

"  First  tell  me  how  you  came  to  know  the  Bristos." 

Miles  gave  Dick  substantially  the  same  story  that 
he  had  already  learned  from  Alice. 

"  Now  listen  to  me,"  said  Dick.  "  Instead  of 
squatter  you  were  bushranger.  You  had  been  in 
England  a  day  or  two  instead  of  a  month  or  two,  and 
you  had  set  foot  in  Sussex  only;  instead  of  masquerad- 
ing as  a  fisherman  you  wore  your  own  sailor's  clothes, 
in  which  you  swam  ashore  from  your  ship." 

"Well  guessed!"  said  Miles  ironically. 

"  A  cleverer  thing  was  never  done,"  Dick  went  on, 
his  tone,  for  the  moment,  not  wholly  free  from  a  trace 
of  admiration.  "  Well,  apart  from  that  first  set  of  lies, 
your  first  action  in  England  was  a  good  one.  That  is 
one  claim  on  leniency.  The  account  you  have  given 
me  of  it  is  quite  true,  for  I  heard  the  same  thing  from 
one  whose  lips,  at  least,  are  true ! " 

These  last  words  forced  their  way  out  without  his 
knowledge  until  he  heard  them. 

156 


Quits 


"Ah!"  said  Miles. 

An  involuntary  subdual  of  both  voices  might  have 
been  noticed  here;  it  was  but  momentary,  and  it  did 
not  recur. 

Dick  Edmonstone  took  his  hands  from  his  pockets, 
drew  nearer  to  Miles,  slowly  beat  his  left  palm  with 
his  right  fist,  and  said: 

"  My  condition  is  simply  this :  you  are  to  go  near  the 
Bristos  no  more." 

If  this  touched  any  delicate  springs  in  the  heart  of 
Miles,  their  workings  did  not  appear  in  his  face.  He 
made  no  immediate  reply;  when  it  came,  there  was  a 
half-amused  ring  in  his  speech: 

"  You  mean  to  drive  a  hard  bargain." 

"  I  don't  call  it  hard." 

"  All  I  possess  is  in  that  house.  I  cannot  go  far, 
as  I  stand;  you  might  as  well  give  me  up  at  once." 

"  I  see,"  said  Dick  musingly.  "  No;  you  are  to  have 
an  excellent  chance.  I  have  no  watch  on  me:  have 
you?  No?  Well,  it  can't  be  more  than  one  now,  or 
two  at  the  latest,  and  they  keep  up  these  dances  till 
dawn — or  they  used  to.  Then  perhaps  you  had  better 
go  back  to  the  house  now.  Button-hole  the  Colonel; 
tell  him  you  have  had  a  messenger  down  from  town — 
from  your  agent.  You  can  surely  add  a  London  agent 
to  your  Queensland  station  and  your  house  in  Sydney! 
Well,  aflfairs  have  gone  wrong  on  this  station  of  yours 
— drought,  floods — anything  you  like;  you  have  re- 
ceived an  important  wire;  you  are  advised,  in  fact,  to 
start  back  to  Queensland  at  once.  At  any  rate,  you 
must  pack  up  your  traps  and  leave  Graysbrooke  first 
thing  in  the  morning.    You  are  very  sorry  to  be  called 

157 


At  Large 

back  so  suddenly — they  are  sorrier  still  to  lose  you; 
but  Australia  and  England  are  so  close  now,  you  are 
sure  to  be  over  again  some  day — and  all  the  rest  of  it; 
but  you  are  never  to  go  near  them  again.  Do  you 
agree?" 

"  What  is  the  alternative?  " 

"  Escape  from  here  dressed  like  that  if  you  can! 
You  will  breakfast  in  gaol.  At  best  you  will  be  hunted 
for  a  week  or  two,  and  then  taken  miserably — there 
is  no  bush  in  England;  whereas  I  offer  you  freedom 
with  one  restriction." 

"  I  agree,"  said  Miles,  hoarsely. 

"  Very  good.  If  you  keep  your  word.  Sundown  the 
bushranger  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  for  all  I  know ; 
if  you  break  it,  Sundown  the  bushranger  is  a  lost  man. 
Now  let  us  leave  this  place." 

Dick  led  the  way  from  the  plantation,  with  his  hands 
again  deep  in  his  pockets. 

Miles  followed,  marvelling.  Marvelling  that  he,  who 
had  terrorised  half  Australia,  should  be  dictated  to  by 
this  English  whelp,  and  bear  it  meekly;  wondering 
what  it  all  meant.  What,  to  begin  with,  was  the  mean- 
ing of  this  masterly  plan  for  an  honourable  exit?  which 
was,  in  fact,  a  continuation  of  his  own  falsehood.  Why 
had  not  this  young  follow — who  had  every  reason  to 
hate  him,  independently  of  to-night's  discovery — 
quietly  brought  the  police  and  watched  him  taken  in 
cold  blood?  There  would  have  been  nothing  under- 
hand in  that;  it  was,  in  fact,  the  only  treatment  that 
any  criminal  at  large  would  expect  at  the  hands  of  the 
average  member  of  society — if  he  fell  into  those  hands. 
Then  why  had  not  this  been  done?    What  tie  or  obli- 

158 


Quits 


gation  could  possibly  exist  between  this  young  Ed- 
monstone  and  Sundown  the  Australian  bushranger? 

The  night  was  at  its  darkest  when  they  reached  the 
avenue;  so  dark  that  they  crossed  into  the  middle  of 
the  broad  straight  road,  where  the  way  was  clearest. 
Straight  in  front  of  them  burned  the  lamps  of  the  gate- 
way, like  two  yellow  eyes  staring  through  a  monstrous 
crape  mask.  They  seemed  to  be  walking  in  a  valley 
between  two  long,  regular  ranges  of  black  mountains 
with  curved  and  undulating  tops — only  that  the  moun- 
tains wavered  in  outline,  and  murmured  from  their 
midst  under  the  light  touch  of  the  sweet  mild  breeze. 

They  walked  on  in  silence,  and  watched  the  deep 
purple  fading  slowly  but  surely  before  their  eyes,  and 
the  lights  ahead  growing  pale  and  sickly. 

Miles  gave  expression  to  the  thought  that  puzzled 
him  most: 

"  For  the  life  of  me,  I  can't  make  out  why  you  are 
doing  this  "  (he  resented  the  bare  notion  of  mercy,  and 
showed  it  in  his  tone).  "  With  you  in  my  place  and 
I  in  yours " 

Dick  stopped  in  his  walk,  and  stopped  Miles  also. 

"  Is  it  possible  you  do  not  know  me?  " 

"  I  have  khown  you  nearly  a  month,"  Miles  an- 
swered. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  remember  seeing 
me  before — before  this  last  month  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  when  first  I  met  you,  I  seemed  to  re- 
member your  voice ;  but  from  what  I  was  told  about 
you  I  made  sure  I  was  mistaken." 

"  Didn't  they  tell  you  that  at  one  time,  out  there 
I  was  hawking  ?  " 

159 


At  Large 


"  No.    Why,  now—" 

"  Stop  a  bit,"  said  Dick,  raising  his  hand.  "  Forget 
that  you  are  here ;  forget  you  are  in  England.  Instead 
of  these  chestnuts,  you're  in  the  mallee  scrub.  The 
night  is  far  darker  than  this  night  has  ever  been :  the 
place  is  a  wilderness.  You  are  lying  in  wait  for  a 
hawker's  wagon.  The  hawkers  drive  up ;  you  take 
them  by  surprise,  and  you're  three  to  two.  They  are 
at  your  mercy.  The  younger  one  is  a  new  chum  from 
England — a  mere  boy.  He  has  all  the  money  of  the 
concern  in  his  pocket,  and  nothing  to  defend  it  with. 
He  flings  himself  unarmed  upon  one  of  your  gang, 
and,  but  for  you,  would  be  knifed  for  his  pains.  You 
save  him  by  an  inch ;  but  you  see  what  maddens  him 
— you  see  he  has  the  money.  You  take  it  from  him. 
The  money  is  all  the  world  to  him :  he  is  mad :  he 
wants  to  be  killed  outright.  You  only  bind  him  to 
the  wheel,  taking  from  him  all  he  has.  So  he  thinks, 
and  death  is  at  his  heart.  But  he  finds  that,  instead 
of  taking  it  all,  you  have  left  it  all ;  you  have  been 
moved  by  compassion  for  the  poor  devil  of  a  new 
chum!  Well,  first  he  cannot  believe  his  eyes;  then 
he  is  grateful ;  then  senseless." 

Miles  scanned  the  young  man's  face  in  the  break- 
ing light.  Yes,  he  remembered  it  now ;  it  had  worn 
this  same  passionate  expression  then.  His  own  face 
reflected  the  aspect  of  the  eastern  sky ;  a  ray  was 
breaking  in  upon  him,  and  shedding  a  new  light  on 
an  old  action,  hidden  away  in  a  dark  corner  of  his 
mind.  A  thing  that  had  been  a  little  thing  until  now 
seemed  to  expand  in  the  sudden  warmth  of  this  new 
light.     Miles  felt  an  odd,  unaccountable   sensation, 

i6o 


Quits 


which,  however,  was  not  altogether  outside  his  ex- 
perience :  he  had  felt  it  when  he  pulled  Colonel  Bristo 
from  the  sea,  and  in  the  moment  of  parting  with  his 
coat  to  a  half-perishing  tramp. 

Dick  continued: 

"  Stop  a  minute — hear  the  end.  This  new  chum, 
fresh  from  *  home,'  was  successful.  He  made  a  fort- 
une— of  a  sort.  It  might  have  been  double  what  it 
is  had  he  been  in  less  of  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  Eng- 
land." Dick  sighed.  "  Whatever  it  is,  it  was  built 
on  that  hundred  which  you  took  and  restored:  that 
was  its  nucleus.  And  therefore — as  well  as  because 
you  saved  his  life — this  new  chum,  when  no  longer 
one,  never  forgot  Sundown  the  bushranger ;  he  nursed 
a  feeling  of  gratitude  towards  him  which  was  profound 
if,  as  he  had  been  assured,  illogical.  Only  a  few  hours 
ago  he  said,  '  If  he  came  within  my  power  I  should 
be  inclined  to  give  him  a  chance,'  or  something  like 
that."  Dick  paused  ;  then  he  added :  "  Now  you  know 
why  you  go  free  this  morning." 

Miles  made  no  immediate  remark.  Bitter  disap- 
pointment and  hungry  yearning  were  for  the  moment 
written  clearly  on  his  handsome,  reckless  face.  At 
last  he  said : 

"  You  may  not  believe  me,  but  when  you  came  to 
me — down  there  on  the  lawn — that's  what  I  was 
swearing  to  myself ;  to  begin  afresh.  And  see  what  has 
come  to  me  since  then !  "  he  added,  with  a  harsh  laugh. 

"  Just  then,"  returned  Dick,  frankly,  "  I  should 
have  liked  nothing  better  than  to  have  seen  you  run 
in.  I  followed  you  out  with  as  good  a  hate  as  one 
man  can  feel  towards  another.     You  never  thought 

i6i 


At  Large 


of  my  following  you  out  here?  Nor  did  I  think  of 
coming  so  far;  by  the  bye,  the — your  wife  made  it 
difficult  for  me ;  she  was  following  too.  Yes,  I  hated 
you  sufficiently ;  and  I  had  suspected  you  from  the 
first — but  not  for  what  you  are ;  when  I  heard  Jem 
Pound  say  your  name  I  was  staggered,  my  brain  went 
reeling,  I  could  scarcely  keep  from  crying  out." 

"  Did  you  recognise  him  ?  " 

"  Pound  ?  No :  I  thought  him  a  detective.  He  is 
a  clever  fellow." 

"  He  is  the  devil  incarnate !  " 

They  had  passed  through  the  gates  into  the  road. 

"  Here  we  separate,"  said  Dick.  "  Go  back  to 
Graysbrooke  the  way  you  came,  and  pack  your 
things.    Is  there  any  need  to  repeat — " 

"  None." 

"  You  understand  that  if  you  break  it,  all's  up  with 
you?" 

"  I  have  accepted  that." 

"  Then  we  are  quits !  " 

"  I  like  your  pluck — I  liked  it  long  ago,"  said  Miles, 
speaking  suddenly,  after  staring  at  Dick  for  more 
than  a  minute  in  silence.  "  I  was  thinking  of  that 
new  chum  hawker  awhile  ago,  before  I  knew  you  were 
he.  You  reminded  me  of  him.  And  I  ought  to  have 
known  then ;  for  I  was  never  spoken  to  the  same,  be- 
fore or  since,  except  then  and  now.  No  one  else  ever 
bargained  with  Sundown!  Well,  a  bargain  it  is. 
Here's  my  hand  on  it." 

As  he  spoke,  he  shook  Edmonstone  by  the  hand 
with  an  air  of  good  faith.  Next  moment,  the  two  men 
were  walking  in  opposite  directions. 

162 


XV 

THE  MORNING  AFTER 

Dick  reached  Iris  Lodge  before  the  other  two 
whom  he  had  left  at  the  ball.  This  was  fortunate,  not 
only  because  he  had  the  latchkey  in  his  pocket,  but 
since  it  obviated  crooked  answers  to  awkward  ques- 
tions: they  would,  of  course,  suppose  that  he  had 
gone  straight  home  from  the  Bristos'. 

He  went  quietly  up  to  his  room,  changed  his  coat, 
and  filled  his  pipe.  In  searching  for  matches  on  the 
dressing-table,  however,  he  came  across  something 
which  caused  him  to  forget  his  pipe  for  the  moment ; 
a  packet  of  letters  in  an  elastic  band,  displaying  im- 
mediately below  the  band  a  thin,  folded  collection  of 
newspaper  cuttings.  They  were  the  extracts  Flint 
had  given  him,  referring  to  the  capture  and  subse- 
quent escape  of  Sundown  the  bushranger.  He  had 
found  no  time  to  read  them  before  going  out,  and 
now — well,  now  he  would  read  them  with  added  in- 
terest, that  was  all. 

Yet  he  stood  still  with  the  papers  in  his  hand,  try- 
ing to  realise  all  that  he  had  seen,  and  heard,  and  said 
since  midnight ;  trying  not  to  separate  in  his  mind  the 
vaguely  suspected  rogue  of  yesterday  and  the  noto- 
rious villain  unmasked  this  morning;  trying,  on  the 
other  hand,  to  reconcile  the  Sundown  of  his  remem- 
brance— still    more    of    his    imagination — with    the 

163 


At  Large 


Miles  of  his  acquaintance,  to  fuse  two  inconsistent 
ideas,  to  weld  unsympathetic  metals. 

Standing  thus,  with  all  other  sensations  yielding  to 
bewilderment,  Dick  was  recalled  to  himself  by  hear- 
ing voices  and  footsteps  below  his  window.  Fanny 
and  Maurice  had  returned ;  he  must  go  down  and  let 
them  in,  and  then — the  cuttings ! 

"  Why,  how  long  have  you  been  in  ?  "  was  Fanny's 
first  question ;  she  had  too  much  tact  to  ask  him  why 
he  had  left. 

"  Oh,  a  long  time,"  Dick  replied.  "  I  didn't  feel 
quite  all  right,"  he  added,  a  shade  nearer  the  truth; 
"  but — but  I  thought  it  would  only  bother  you." 

"  How  could  you  think  that  ?  If  you  had  only  told 
me,"  said  Fanny,  with  honest  trouble  in  her  voice, 
"  you  shouldn't  have  come  alone." 

"  Then  I'm  glad  I  gave  you  the  slip."  Dick  manu- 
factured a  laugh.  "  But,  indeed,  I'm  all  right  now — 
right  as  the  mail,  honour  bright !  " 

"  But  why  didn't  you  go  to  bed  when  you  got 
home  ?  "  his  sister  pursued. 

"  The  key !  "  explained  Maurice  laconically,  turn- 
ing out  the  hall  gas  as  he  spoke. 

They  stole  up-stairs  in  the  pale  chill  light  that  fell 
in  bars  through  the  blind  of  the  landing  window. 

Fanny  laid  her  hand  softly  on  Dick's  shoulder. 

"  It  was  wretched  after  you  went,"  she  whispered 
sympathetically.  "  Do  you  know  that — that — " 
timorously — "  Alice  went  up-stairs  and  never  came 
down  again  ?  " 

"  Did  no  one  else  disappear?  "  asked  Dick,  bending 
his  head  to  read  his  sister's  eyes. 

164 


The  Morning  After 

Fanny  hung  her  head.  Mr.  Miles  had  been  missed 
by  all;  but  no  one — except  the  Colonel — had  re- 
marked Dick's  absence  in  her  hearing.  When  she 
had  found  Alice  nearly  fainting,  and  taken  her  to  her 
maid,  she  had  seen,  indeed,  that  her  friend  was  sorely 
distressed  about  something;  but  the  friendship  be- 
tween them  was  not  close  enough  for  the  seeking  of 
confidences  on  either  side ;  and,  as  the  cause  of  so 
many  sighs  and  tears,  she  had  thought  naturally,  be- 
cause she.  wished  so  to  think,  of  her  own  brother. 
Now  it  seemed  that  perhaps,  after  all,  Mr.  Miles — 
whom  she  detested — had  been  the  object  of  compas- 
sion.   And  Fanny  had  nothing  to  say. 

"  Good  night,"  said  Dick,  quietly  kissing  her. 

The  next  moment  she  heard  the  key  turn  in  his 
door. 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  lit  his  pipe, 
and  withdrew  the  cuttings  from  the  indiarubber  band. 
There  was  not  much  to  read,  after  all ;  only  three 
paragraphs,  of  which  two  were  telegraphic,  and  con- 
sequently brief.  In  no  case  was  either  name  or  date 
of  the  newspaper  attached;  but  in  the  short  para- 
graphs Dick  seemed  to  recognise  the  type  of  the 
"  Australasian,"  while  there  was  internal  evidence  that 
the  longer  one  emanated  from  a  Queensland  organ. 
After  glancing  rapidly  at  all  three,  he  arranged  them 
in  an  order  that  proved  to  be  chronologically  correct. 

The  first  paragraph  (telegraphic :  headed  "  Bris- 
bane, Friday,")  stated  that,  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
day  before,  the  branch  of  the  Australian  Joint-Stock 
Bank  at  Mount  Clarence  had  been  entered  by  two 
bushrangers,  one  of  whom  declared  that  he  was  Sun- 

165 


At  Large 


down,  the  New  South  Wales  outlaw.  That  after 
"  bailing  up "  everybody  in  the  establishment,  and 
shutting  up  the  bank — which,  as  it  was  then  closing- 
time,  was  effected  without  raising  the  suspicions  of 
the  township — the  bushrangers  had  ridden  away, 
taking  with  them  about  five  hundred  ounces  of  gold 
and  a  considerable  sum  in  cheques  and  notes.  That, 
at  two  o'clock  the  following  morning,  the  bush- 
rangers had  been  captured  asleep  under  a  gunyah, 
twelve  miles  from  Mount  Clarence,  "  through  the  rare 
sagacity  of  Sergeant  Dogherty,"  and  that  Sundown's 
mate,  a  man  named  Benjamin  Hickey,  had  been  sub- 
sequently shot  dead  by  the  police  on  attempting  to 
escape.  "  The  redoubtable  Ned  Ryan,  alias  Sun- 
down," the  paragraph  concluded,  "  gave  no  trouble 
on  the  way  to  Mount  Clarence,  whence  he  will  be  for- 
warded to  Rockhampton  without  delay ;  but  the  gold 
has  not  yet  been  recovered,  having  evidently  been 
*  planted '  by  the  outlaws  before  camping  for  the 
night." 

Dick  believed  that  he  had  seen  this  identical  para- 
graph in  the  "  Argus  "  of  February  13th,  the  day  on 
which  the  Hesper  sailed  from  Hobson's  Bay. 

The  second  cutting  seemed  to  be  part — perhaps  the 
greater  part — of  an  article  from  a  Queensland  pen, 
written  in  the  first  blush  of  triumph  following  the  an- 
nouncement of  Sundown's  capture.  From  it  Dick 
learned  so  much  concerning  Ned  Ryan  that  had  never 
before  come  to  his  knowledge,  that  it  is  here  repro- 
duced word  for  word: 

"  Edward  Ryan,  or  '  Sundown,'  is  declared  by  our 
informant  to  be  a  man  of  pleasing  countenance,  about 

166 


The  Morning  After 

six  feet  three  inches  high  and  thirty-seven  years  of 
age.  He  is  a  native  of  Victoria,  where  his  parents 
resided  for  many  years.  Some  six  years  ago — being 
then  a  horse-dealer  of  questionable  repute — he  mar- 
ried the  daughter  of  a  well-to-do  farmer  in  the  Ovens 
district  (Vic).  But  for  some  time  past — since,  indeed, 
a  short  time  after  his  outlawry — he  is  said  to  have 
ceased  all  communication  with  his  wife.  About  four 
years  and  a  half  ago,  a  warrant  was  taken  out  against 
Edward  Ryan  for  some  roguery  connected  with  a 
horse.  He,  however,  managed  to  escape  across  the 
Murray  into  New  South  Wales.  A  few  weeks  later 
his  career  of  desperate  crime — which  has  now  happily 
ended  as  above  detailed — was  commenced  in  the  part- 
nership of  two  kindred  spirits.  One  of  these,  Ben- 
jamin Hickey,  has  met  with  a  summary  fate,  but  one 
strictly  in  accordance  with  his  deserts,  as  already  de- 
scribed. The  third  of  the  band,  however,  who  is  be- 
lieved by  the  police  to  be  a  Tasmanian  '  old  hand,' 
lost  sight  of  for  many  years,  was  turned  adrift  some 
time  ago  by  Sundown,  on  account,  it  is  said,  of  his 
extreme  bloodthirstiness.  This  statement  receives 
colour  from  the  fact  that  Sundown,  since  his  capture, 
has  declared  that  neither  he  nor  Hickey  ever  spilt 
blood  with  their  own  hands ;  so  that  if  this  is  true, 
not  only  the  murder  of  Youl,  the  storekeeper  near 
Menindie,  on  the  Darling — which  crime  rendered  the 
name  of  Sundown  infamous  at  the  commencement — 
but  the  grievous  wounding  of  Constable  O'Flynn, 
two  years  later,  may  be  freely  ascribed  to  the  mur- 
derous hand  of  the  miscreant  that  is  still  at  large. 
However  this  may  be,  we  have,  in  Sundown,  suc- 

167 


At  Large 


ceeded  in  running  to  earth  a  freebooter  equal  in  dar- 
ing, impudence,  and  cunning  generalship  to  the  most 
formidable  of  the  highwaymen  who  were  the  terror 
of  the  sister  colonies  in  the  early  days.  The  credit  of 
this  brilliant  capture,  however,  rests  entirely  with  this 
colony.  Indeed,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  we  shall  here- 
after be  able  to  boast  that  it  was  reserved  to  the 
youngest  colony  to  add  the  finishing  touch  to  the 
extermination  of  the  Australian  bandit.  And  as  the 
bunshrangers  had  been  but  a  few  months  in  Queens- 
land, whereas  their  depredations  in  the  neighbouring 
colony  extended  over  as  many  years,  it  will  be  seen 
that  on  the  whole  the  exploit  of  our  police  compares 
not  unfavourably  with  the  New  South  Wales  method 
of  doing  business." 

After  this,  the  eflfect  of  the  last  extract  was  at  least 
startling.  The  words  in  this  case  were  few,  and 
cruelly  to  the  point.  They  simply  told  of  the  escape 
of  the  prisoner  Ryan  during  a  violent  dust-storm  that 
enveloped  the  township  of  Mount  Clarence,  and  after- 
wards rendered  tracking  (when  the  bird  was  dis- 
covered to  have  flown)  most  difficult.  No  details  of 
the  escape  were  given,  but  the  message  ended  with 
the  confident  assurance  (which  read  humourously 
now)  that  the  re-capture  of  Sundown,  alive  or  dead, 
could  be  but  a  matter  of  hours. 

There  was  a  curious  smile  upon  Dick's  face  as  he 
folded  up  the  cuttings.  "  I  wonder  how  on  earth  he 
did  it?"  he  asked  himself  as  he  slowly  knocked  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe. 

The  sunlight  was  peeping  in  where  it  could 
through  blind  and  curtains.      Dick  raised  the  first, 

i68 


The  Morning  After 

drew  back  the  second,  and  stood  in  the  broad  light  of 
day.  Then,  throwing  up  the  sash,  he  plunged  head 
and  shoulders  into  the  fresh,  fragrant  morning  air. 
The  effect  upon  him  was  magical.  His  forehead 
seemed  pressed  by  a  cool,  soothing  hand ;  his  throat 
drank  down  a  deep  draught  of  wizard's  wine ;  he 
caught  at  his  breath,  as  though  actually  splashing 
in  the  dewy  air,  and  yet  in  a  very  little  while  the  man's 
baser  nature  asserted  itself.  Dick  yawned,  not  once 
or  twice,  but  repeatedly;  then  he  shivered  and  shut 
the  window.  Five  minutes  later  the  Hvely  sparrows 
— if  they  took  more  than  a  passing  interest  in  their 
early  guest,  as  they  should,  since  such  very  early 
guests  were  rare  among  them — the  sprightly  sparrows 
that  visited  the  window-ledge  might  have  seen  for 
themselves  that  he  was  sound,  sound  asleep. 

For  some  hours  this  sleep  was  profound,  until,  in 
fact,  Dick  began  to  dream.  Then,  indeed,  he  was 
soon  awake,  but  not  before  his  soul  had  been  poisoned 
by  a  very  vivid  and  full  vision.  This  dream  was  not 
strange  under  the  circumstances,  but  it  was  plausible, 
disturbing,  and  less  bizarre  than  most — in  fact,  ter- 
ribly realistic.  He  had  gone  to  Graysbrooke  and 
found  Miles — Sundown  the  bushranger — still  there. 
At  once  and  openly  he  had  denounced  the  villain, 
shown  him  in  his  true  colours,  and  at  once  he  had  been 
disbelieved — laughed  at  by  the  enemy,  pitied  by  his 
friends,  treated  as  the  victim  of  a  delusion.  With 
Miles's  mocking  defiant  laugh  in  his  ears,  Dick 
awoke. 

It  was  the  dread,  the  chance  of  something  like  this 
actually  happening,  that  hurried  him  to  Graysbrooke 

169 


At  Large 


with  unbroken  fast.  He  found  Colonel  Bristo  plainly 
worried,  yet  glad  to  see  him,  eager  to  tell  him  what 
was  the  matter. 

"  We  have  lost  our  guest." 

Dick  felt  the  blood  rushing  back  to  his  face  at  the 
words. 

"  Miles  has  gone,"  the  Colonel  pursued  in  a  tone 
of  annoyance ;  "  gone  this  morning — a  summons  to 
Austraha,  he  fears — a  thing  he  had  never  dreamt  of 
until  last  night." 

"  Dear  me !  "  said  Dick,  with  surprise  that  was 
partly  genuine.  For  his  plan  had  worked  out  better 
— he  had  been  followed  more  strictly  to  the  letter 
than  he  could  have  dared  to  hope ;  the  misgivings  of 
the  last  hour  were  turned  to  supreme  satisfaction. 

"  Yes,"  sighed  the  soldier,  "  it  was  most  unex- 
pected. And  I  need  not  tell  you  how  disappointed  we 
all  are." 

Dick  murmured  that  he  was  sure  of  it,  with  all  the 
awkwardness  of  an  honest  tongue  driven  into  hypoc- 
risy. 

"  For  my  own  part,  I  feel  confoundedly  put  out 
about  it.  I  shall  be  as  dull  as  ditch-water  for  days. 
As  for  the  ladies,  they'll  miss  him  horribly." 

Dick's  reply  was  monosyllabic,  and  its  tone  fell  dis- 
tinctly short  of  sympathy. 

"  He  was  such  a  good  fellow !  " 

The  Colonel  said  this  regretfully,  and  waited  for 
some  echo.  But  Dick  could  have  said  nothing 
without  the  whole  truth  bursting  out,  so  he  merely 
asked : 

"When  did  he  go?" 

170 


The  Morning  After 

"  About  nine — as  soon  as  he  could  pack  up  his 
things,  in  fact.  Alice  was  not  down  to  say  good-bye 
to  him." 

Dick's  eyes  glittered. 

"  He  will  be  back  to  say  it,  though  ? "  he  asked 
suspiciously. 

"  No,  I  fear  not ;  he  will  probably  have  to  start  at 
once ;  at  least,  so  his  agent  told  him — the  fellow  who 
came  down  last  night,  and  robbed  us  of  him  for  half 
the  evening.  By-the-bye,  we  missed  you  too ;  did 
you  go  home  ?  " 

"  Yes."     Dick  faltered  a  little. 

"Have  you  and  Alice  been  quarrelling?"  asked 
Alice's  father  abruptly. 

Dick  answered  simply  that  they  had.  Colonel 
Bristo  silently  paced  the  carpet.  When  he  spoke 
again  it  was  to  revert  to  the  subject  of  Miles. 

"  Yes,  I  am  sorry  enough  to  lose  him ;  for  we  had 
become  great  friends,  intimate  friends,  and  we  under- 
stood one  another  thoroughly,  he  and  I.  But  the 
worst  of  it  is,  we  shan't  have  him  with  us  in  York- 
shire. What  a  man  for  the  moors !  And  how  he 
would  have  enjoyed  it !  But  there  ;  it's  no  use  talking ; 
we're  all  disappointed,  and  there's  an  end  of  it." 

The  Colonel  laid  his  hand  on  Dick's  shoulder,  and 
added : 

"  You  won't  disappoint  us,  my  boy?  " 

"  For  the  moors,  sir  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course." 

"  I  cannot  go — I  am  very  sorry  " — hastily — "  but 


Nonsense,  Dick !  " 

171 


At  Large 


"  I  really  cannot — I  cannot,  indeed,"  with  lame 
repetition. 

"  And  why?  "  asked  Colonel  Bristo,  mildly.  "  Why 
— when  you  promised  us  weeks  ago  ?  " 

Dick  raised  his  eyes  from  the  ground,  and  the  an- 
swer was  given  and  understood  without  words;  yet 
he  felt  impelled  to  speak.  He  began  in  a  low  voice, 
nervously : 

"  Without  disrespect,  sir,  I  think  I  may  beg  of  you 
not  to  insist  on  an  explanation — either  from  me,  or 
from — anyone  else.  It  could  do  no  good.  It  might 
do — I  mean  it  might  cause — additional  pain.  You 
have  guessed  the  reason?  Yes,  you  see  it  clearly — 
you  understand.  And — and  you  seem  sorry.  Don't 
let  it  trouble  you,  sir.  There  are  lots  better  than  I." 
He  paused,  then  added  uncertainly :  "  Colonel  Bristo, 
you  have  been  more,  far  more,  than  kind  and  good  to 
me.  If  you  treated  me  like  a  son  before  it  was 
time — well — well,  it  will  all  be  a  pleasant  memory  to — 
to  take  away  with  me." 

"Away?" 

"  Yes,  away ;  back  to  Australia,"  said  Dick,  ex- 
pressing his  newest  thought  as  though  it  were  his 
oldest.  "  Before  you  get  back  from  the  north,  I  shall 
probably  be  on  my  way." 

"  Don't  do  that,  Dick— don't  do  that,"  said  Colonel 
Bristo,  with  some  feeling. 

Personal  liking  for  Dick  apart,  it  was  not  a  pleasant 
reflection  that  his  daughter  had  jilted  the  man  who 
had  come  from  Australia  to  marry  her,  and  was  send- 
ing him  back  there. 

Dick  answered  him  sadly. 
172 


The  Morning  After 

"  It  can't  be  helped,  sir.  It  is  all  over.  It  is  decent 
that  I  should  go." 

"  I  don't  understand  'em — never  understood  'em," 
muttered  the  old  man  vaguely,  and  half  to  himself. 
"  Still,  there  is  no  one  but  Dick,  I  dare  swear ;  who 
should  there  be  but  Dick  ?  " 

Dick  stepped  forward,  as  though  to  push  the  scales 
from  the  eyes  of  this  unseeing  man ;  but  he  checked 
his  impulse,  and  cried  huskily,  holding  the  thin  hand 
in  his  own  great  strong  one : 

"  Good-bye,  Colonel  Bristo.  God  bless  you,  sir ! 
Good-bye !  " 

And  the  young  man  was  gone. 


173 


XVI 

MILITARY    MANCEUVRES 

"  Well ! "  exclaimed  Colonel  Bristo,  after  some 
minutes.  He  leant  back  in  his  chair  and  stared  sternly 
at  his  book-shelves.  "  It's  a  nice  look-out  for  the 
moors ;  that's  all." 

His  reflections  were  dispiriting.  He  was  thinking 
that  the  only  two  men  whom  he  had  really  wanted 
down  in  Yorkshire  had  this  morning,  almost  in  the 
same  breath,  declared  that  they  could  not  go.  They 
were,  in  fact,  both  going  back  to  Australia — indepen- 
dently, from  widely  different  reasons.  With  Miles  the 
necessity  was  pressing  enough,  no  doubt ;  and  then  he 
had  only  been  visiting  England,  and  never  contem- 
plated a  long  stay.  But  Dick's  case  was  very  differ- 
ent. He  had  come  home  for  good,  with  his  "  pile  " 
and  his  prospects.  Could  he  possibly  have  been  made 
so  miserable  during  these  few  weeks  that  he  would 
be  glad  to  bury  himself  again  in  the  bush  ?  Could  his 
case  be  really  so  hopeless  as  he  himself  believed  it  ? 

"  If  so,"  said  Colonel  Bristo  with  irritation,  "  then 
Alice  has  played  the  deuce  with  the  best  young  fel- 
low in  England !  " 

But  how  could  he  tell?  How  was  he,  the  father, 
to  get  at  the  facts  of  the  case?  Alice  was  all  the 
world  to  him :  but  for  all  the  world  he  would  not  have 

174 


Military  Manoeuvres 

sought  her  confidence  in  such  a  matter.    Then  what 
was  he  to  do? 

He  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  paced  the  floor  with 
the  stride  of  a  skipper  on  his  poop.  He  had  Hked 
young  Edmonstone  always — respected  him  as  a  mere 
stripling.  Love-sick  boys  were,  as  a  rule,  selfish,  if 
not  sly,  young  fools — that  was  his  experience ;  but 
this  one  had  shown  himself  upright  and  fearless — had, 
in  fact,  behaved  uncommonly  well,  once  the  mischief 
was  done.  But  that  liking  had  developed  into  affec- 
tion since  the  night  of  Dick's  arrival.  Poor  fellow! 
how  grateful  he  had  been !  how  hopeful !  Who  could 
have  discouraged  him?  The  Colonel,  for  his  part, 
had  no  reason  to  do  so  now.  What  was  there  against 
him  ?  what  against  "  it  "  ?  In  a  word,  he  had  soon — 
as  he  saw  more  of  him — set  his  heart  upon  Dick  for 
his  son.  Secretly,  he  had  already  formed  certain  proj- 
ects of  parental  ingenuity.  He  had  already,  in  his 
walks,  held  stealthy  intercourse  with  house  and  estate 
agents,  and  otherwise  dipped  into  the  future  of  other 
people,  further  than  he  had  any  business.  And  here 
was  the  death-blow  to  it  all !  The  pair  had  quarrelled 
so  violently  that  the  prospective  son-in-law  was  on 
the  point  of  taking  himself  back  to  Australia!  One 
thing  was  certain :  it  could  be  no  ordinary  disagree- 
ment— she  must  have  jilted  him.  But  if  so,  for 
whom  ?  She  had  seen  nobody  for  months — nobody 
but  Miles!  And  Miles — the  Colonel  smiled  indul- 
gently— with  all  his  good  points,  with  all  his  fine 
qualities,  Miles  was  no  marrying  man.  Then  who 
could  it  be?  Once  more  he,  her  father,  was  unable 
to  tell,  for  the  life  of  him. 


At  Large 


He  sat  down,  rose  again  in  a  moment,  and  rang  the 
bell.  Then  he  sent  a  polite  message  to  Mrs.  Parish, 
requesting  her  kind  attendance,  if  not  in  any  way  in- 
convenient. 

"  She  can  at  least  put  me  right  on  one  or  two  points. 
That  is,  if  she  doesn't  go  off  at  a  tangent,  down  some 
blind-alley  of  a  side  issue !  " 

The  lady  appeared  after  the  regulation  delay,  by 
which  she  was  in  the  habit  of  italicising  the  dignity  of 
her  office. 

By  her  greeting,  one  would  have  thought  the  ap- 
pointment was  of  her  making.  She  observed  that  she 
would  have  come  before  to  inquire  how  the  Colonel 
felt  after  it  all,  but  understood  that  he  was  engaged. 

The  Colonel  explained  with  a  sigh. 

"  He  is  gone." 

"  Ah !  "  There  was  unprecedented  sympathy  in  the 
lady's  look  and  tone. 

"  You  saw  him  go  ?  "  asked  the  Colonel,  looking 
up  in  surprise. 

"I  did,"  sadly;  "I  did." 

"  He  said  good-bye  to  you,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  he  did !    He  was  hardly  likely  to — " 

"  He  didn't  ask  to  see  AHce,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  di'd." 

"  Dear  me !  "  said  the  Colonel  to  himself. 

"  But  she  could  not  see  him,  I  grieve  to  say ;  it  was 
a  thousand  pities,  seeing  that  he's  going  straight  back 
to  Australia." 

"  Oh,  he  told  you  that  too,  did  he  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  Colonel  Bristo,  when  he  said  good- 
bye." 

176 


Military  Manoeuvres 

"  Dear  me !    But  why  wouldn't  Alice  see  him  ?  " 

"  It  was  too  early." 

"  A  mere  excuse,"  exclaimed  the  Colonel  angrily, 
looking  at  his  watch.  "  Too  early !  It  is  plain  that 
she  has  thrown  him  over.    If  so,  then  the  best  young 

fellow  in  England  has  been But  perhaps  you 

can  tell  me  whether  it  really  is  so?  " 

Mrs.  Parish  began  to  feel  mystified. 

"  A  young  fellow  ?  "  she  began  doubtfully. 

"  Well,  young  in  years ;  older  than  his  age,  I  know. 
But  that's  not  my  point." 

"  Then  I  really  don't  know.  Colonel  Bristo.  Alice 
seldom  honors  me  with  her  confidence  nowadays. 
Indeed,  for  the  last  year — " 

"  The  point — my  dear  madam  ;  the  point !" 

"  Well,  then,"  snapped  Mrs.  Parish,  "  to  judge  by 
their  dances  together,  last  night,  I  should  say  you  are 
certainly  wrong !  " 

"  Ah,  you  thought  that  at  the  time,  I  know.  Do 
you  remember  my  disagreeing  with  you  when  you 
declared  Alice  had  never  been  more  brilliant,  and  so 
on  ?    Why  she  only  danced  with  the  lad  once !  " 

Only  once !  "  The  lad !  "  Colonel  Bristo  must  cer- 
tainly be  joking ;  and  jokes  at  the  expense  of  the  lady 
who  had  controlled  his  household  for  twenty  years 
were  not  to  be  tolerated. 

"  Colonel  Bristo,  I  fail  to  understand  you.  If  it 
were  not  preposterous,  I  should  imagine  you  had 
stooped  to  ridicule.  Allow  me,  please,  to  state  that 
your  daughter  danced  three  times,  if  not  four,  with 
Mr.  Miles — I  see  nothing  to  smile  at,  Colonel 
Bristo!" 

177 


At  Large 


"  My  good — my  dear  Mrs.  Parish,"  said  he,  cor- 
recting himself  hastily,  and  rising  urbanely  from  his 
chair,  "  we  are  at  cross  purposes.  I  mean  young 
Edmonstone;  you  mean,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Miles.  A 
thousand  apologies." 

Mrs.  Parish  was  only  partially  appeased. 

"  Oh,  if  you  mean  that  young  gentleman,  I  can 
assure  you  he  has  absolutely  no  chance.  Has  he  said 
good-bye,  too,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes.    He  says  he  is  going  back  to  Australia." 

"  I  said  he  would !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Parish  with 
gusto. 

"  But — I  say !  You  surely  don't  mean  that  it  is 
Mr.  Miles  Alice  cares  for?" 

Mrs.  Parish  smiled  superior. 

"  Has  it  not  been  patent  ?  " 

"  Not  to  me,  madam !  "  said  Colonel  Bristo  warmly. 

"  Love  on  both  sides ;  I  might  say  at  first  sight. 
I  watched  it  dawn,  and  last  night  I  thought  it  had 
reached  high  noon,"  the  old  lady  declared  with 
emotion.  "  But  this  unfortunate  summons !  Still, 
I  think  we  shall  see  him  again  before  he  sails,  and  I 
think  he  will  come  back  to  England  for  good  before 
long." 

"  You  mean  you  hope  so,  Mrs.  Parish,"  said  the 
Colonel  dryly.  He  seated  himself  at  his  desk  with 
unmistakable  meaning.  "  Confound  her !  "  he  mut- 
tered when  the  door  closed ;  "  the  thing  is  plausible 
enough.  Yet  I  don't  believe  it.  What's  more,  much 
as  I  like  Miles,  I  don't  wish  it !  No.  Now  what  am 
I  to  do  about  Dick  ?  " 

This  question  occupied  his  thoughts  for  the  rest  of 
178 


Military  Manoeuvres 

the  morning.  He  could  not  answer  it  to  his  satis- 
faction. In  the  afternoon  he  sent  word  to  Iris  Lodge, 
begging  Dick  to  come  over  in  the  evening  for  an 
hour.  The  messenger  brought  back  the  news  that 
Mr.  Edmonstone  was  from  home — had,  in  fact,  left 
for  abroad  that  afternoon. 

"  Abroad !  "  thought  Colonel  Bristo.  "  He  has  lost 
no  time !  But  '  abroad  '  only  means  the  Continent — 
it  is  '  out '  when  you  go  farther.  And  yet  that  is  one 
way  out — the  quickest!  Is  he  capable  of  such  mad- 
ness at  a  moment's  notice  ?  Never ;  impossible.  But 
I  had  better  look  into  the  matter  myself." 

And  this  the  Colonel  did  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days,  by  himself  calling  at  Iris  Lodge.  There  was  a 
little  coldness,  or  it  may  have  been  merely  self-con- 
sciousness, in  his  reception.  But  when,  after  a  few 
preliminaries,  the  visitor  began  to  speak  of  Dick,  this 
soon  wore  off;  for  his  regard  was  too  warmly  ex- 
pressed, and  his  praise  too  obviously  genuine,  not  to 
win  and  melt  hearts  half  as  loving  as  those  of  Mrs. 
Edmonstone  and  her  daughter.  The  Colonel,  for  his 
part,  was  sufficiently  rewarded  when  he  learnt  that 
Dick  had  merely  joined  an  old  Australian  friend  in 
Italy,  and  would  be  back  at  the  beginning  of  August. 

"  I  was  half  afraid,"  he  observed  tentatively,  "  that 
he  was  tired  of  England  already,  and  was  on  his  way 
out  again." 

The  horror  with  which  this  notion  was  instantly 
demolished  caused  the  old  gentleman  to  smile  with 
unconcealed  satisfaction ;  for  it  assured  him  that 
Dick's  intention  (if  it  was  an  intention,  and  not  merely 
the  wild  idea  of  a  heated  moment)  had  at  least  not 

179 


At  Large 


yet  been  breathed  to  his  family.  He  took  up  his  hat 
and  cane  with  a  Hght  heart.  And  he  stopped  to  add 
a  rider  to  his  gracious  adieu : 

"  We  shall  be  tramping  the  moors  when  your  son 
returns,  Mrs.  Edmonstone,  so  I  beg  you  will  forward 
him  on  to  us.  And  pray,  Miss  Fanny,  use  your  in- 
fluence as  well,  for  we  have  lost  our  other  Australian, 
and  I  don't  see  how  we  can  get  on  without  Dick." 

He  went  out  in  good  spirits. 

Thereafter,  as  far  as  the  Colonel  was  concerned, 
young  Edmonstone  might  bake  himself  to  his  heart's 
content — until  the  Twelfth — abroad.  As  it  happened, 
Colonel  Bristo  found  a  far  more  immediate  cause 
for  anxiety  at  home.  This  was  the  appearance  of 
AHce. 

As  July  drew  near  its  latter  days,  the  change  in  her 
looks  passed  the  perceptible  stage  to  the  noticeable. 
Her  colouring  had  been  called  her  best  point  by  some, 
her  only  good  one  by  others  (possibly  according  to 
the  sex  of  the  critic) ;  yet  now  her  face  was  wholly  void 
of  colour.  The  flower-like  complexion  was,  if  pos- 
sible, more  delicate  than  before,  but  now  it  resembled 
the  waxen  lily  instead  of  the  glowing  wild  rose.  Even 
the  full,  firm  lips  were  pale  and  pinched.  Her  eyes 
were  either  dull  or  restless,  and  their  dark  setting 
seemed  more  prominent:  shadows  lay  below  them 
where  no  shadows  should  have  been.  For  the  rest, 
any  real  activity  of  mind  or  body  seemed  as  impossible 
to  her  as  any  real  repose ;  she  appeared  to  have  gained 
only  in  thoughtfulness — as  indicated  by  silence.  On 
fine  days,  though  the  river  could  not  charm  her,  she 
would  dress  for  walking,  and  come  back  tired  out  in 

1 80 


Military  Manoeuvres 

twenty  minutes.  On  wet  ones  she  divided  her  time 
between  the  first  few  pages  of  a  book,  and  the  first  few 
bars  of  a  waltz;  between  the  two  she  never  got  any 
farther  in  either.  Perhaps  experience  had  taught  her 
that  all  the  tune  of  a  waltz  is  at  the  beginning ;  and  I 
suppose  she  failed  to  "  get  into  "  her  novels.  Her  ear 
was  sensitive,  attuned  to  her  temper ;  common  sounds 
startled  her  painfully ;  the  unexpected  opening  or  shut- 
ting of  a  door  went  far  to  unhinge  both  nerves  and 
temper.  The  latter,  indeed,  was  less  sweet  at  this 
period  than  ever  in  her  life  before,  and  none  knew  it 
so  well  as  she  herself,  who  bore  the  brunt  of  it  in  her 
own  heart. 

None  of  these  signs  escaped  the  watchful  eyes  about 
her.  But  while,  on  the  one  hand,  Mrs.  Parish  noted 
them  with  incomplete  sympathy  and  impartial  confi- 
dence in  the  justice  of  consequences  (believing  that 
Alice's  indecision  had  brought  this  on  her  own  head, 
and  that  a  little  uncertainty  would  do  her  no  harm), 
the  father's  heart  became  more  and  more  distressed 
as  each  new  symptom  was  made  plain  to  him.  He 
was  both  worried  and  perplexed.  He  called  in  a  local 
doctor.  That  move  made  her  ill-health  no  better,  and 
her  ill-temper  worse.  What,  then,  could  the  father  do  ? 
Always  loving  and  indulgent — never  intimate — with 
his  child,  it  had  been  his  practice,  when  serious  mat- 
ters arose,  to  employ  the  ambassador  always  at  hand ; 
thus  there  had  never,  during  all  the  years,  been  a  word 
of  contention  between  father  and  daughter;  and  to 
this  practice  the  father  resorted  now. 

Late  one  afternoon  they  were  all  three  sitting  in  the 
garden,  when  Alice  rose,  without  breaking  her  long 

l8i 


At  Large 


silence,  and  slowly  walked  towards  the  house.  The 
Colonel  followed  her  with  his  eyes  ;  he  held  a  glowing 
cigarette  between  his  fingers ;  the  distance  was  short 
enough,  but  before  Alice  reached  the  house  the 
cigarette  was  out. 

"  Look  at  her  now !  Is  that  the  step  of  a  healthy 
girl?  See  her  climb  those  six  steps — they  might  be 
the  top  flight  of  St.  Paul's  !  Mrs.  Parish  "—with  sud- 
den decision — "  Mrs.  Parish,  you  must  see  to  the  root 
of  this  matter  before  it  gets  any  worse.  I  must  know 
exactly  what  is  at  the  bottom  of  it.  I  desire  you  to 
speak  to  Alice,  for  I  cannot.  You  understand  me,  I 
think?  Very  well,  then,  pray  watch  your  oppor- 
tunity." 

The  very  next  morning  the  housekeeper  came  to 
the  study.  She  had  spoken  to  Alice.  She  did  not 
require  much  questioning. 

"  Oh,  as  to  young  Mr.  Richard.  I  could  elicit  noth- 
ing— nothing  at  all.  He  seemed  quite  outside  her 
thoughts." 

Mrs.  Parish  made  this  statement  with  a  smack  of 
satisfaction.  Colonel  Bristo,  however,  must  have 
given  it  a  construction  of  his  own,  for  he  did  not  look 
displeased.    He  simply  said : 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  she  was  almost  as  reticent  about  Mr.  Miles ; 
though  we  know  what  that  signifies !  "  (But  here  the 
Colonel  shook  his  head.)  "  What  she  did  say,  how- 
ever, is  not  worth  repeating." 

"  Still,  I  should  like  to  hear  it." 

"  It  does  not  affect  matters  in  the  least." 

"  Pray  go  on,  Mrs.  Parish." 
182 


Military  Manoeuvres 

"  Of  course,  if  you  insist,  Colonel  Bristo !  Well, 
then,  Alice  tells  me  that,  two  days  after  Mr.  Miles 
went,  a  shabby  kind  of  woman  had  the  impudence  to 
walk  into  the  garden,  accost  her,  and  ask  if  Mr.  Miles 
(how  she  had  got  his  name,  one  cannot  tell)  was  still 
here.  Alice  said  '  No,'  and  was  weak  enough  to  give 
her  money,  because  she  seemed  wretched,  she  says, 
and  so  got  rid  of  her." 

"  One  of  the  beggars  he  helped,"  said  the  Colonel. 
"  He  used  to  have  long  conversations  with  them,  and 
tell  them  to  emigrate." 

"  Why,  to  be  sure!  "  cried  Mrs.  Parish,  at  once  en- 
lightened and  relieved.  And  now  she  was  as  eager 
to  tell  the  rest  as  before  she  had  been  slow  to  speak. 
"  The  very  next  day  after  that,  Alice  saw  a  man  watch- 
ing the  house  from  the  tow-path.  He  seemed  to  be 
there  all  day;  so  at  last  she  rowed  across  and  asked 
him  if  he  wanted  anyone.  He  said,  '  Yes,  the  gentle- 
man who's  been  staying  there;  where  is  he?  '  She  told 
him  he  was  on  his  way  back  to  Australia.  The  man 
did  not  seem  to  believe  it.  In  the  end  she  gave  money 
to  him  too,  and  soon  she  saw  him  go." 

"  Another  of  his  beggars!  "  laughed  Colonel  Bristo. 
"  Their  name  is  legion,  no  doubt,  and  we  shall  see  more 
of  them  yet.  For  the  credit  of  the  Mother  Country, 
we  can't  shut  the  door  in  their  faces  after  a  Colonial 
has  given  them  a  taste  of  real  downright  generosity. 
Poor  Miles!" 

"  Well,  Alice,  for  her  part,  seems  ready  enough  to 
carry  on  his  works  of  charity,"  said  Mrs.  Parish, 
adroitly,  with  an  emphasis  ever  so  slight  on  the  pos- 
sessive pronoun. 

183 


At  Large 


The  Colonel  smiled.  Then  he  thanked  her  gra- 
ciously for  the  service. 

"  I  am  extremely  obliged  to  you,  Mrs.  Parish,  for 
the  hundredth  time.  You  have  saved  me  yet  another 
interview.  That  is,  I  should  have  made  it  awkward, 
but  you,  with  your  usual  tact,  have  got  at  precisely 
what  I  wanted.     I  am  perfectly  satisfied." 

Mrs.  Parish  bowed.  She  was  not  a  little  pleased 
with  the  compliment  to  her  tact,  on  which  she  plumed 
herself  above  everything;  but  her  pleasure  was  less 
than  her  surprise — that  the  Colonel  should  be  so  easily 
satisfied!  She  moved  with  dignity  to  the  door.  As 
she  was  shutting  it,  the  Colonel  rubbed  his  hands  and 
exclaimed  aloud: 

"It  is  Dick!" 

The  door,  which  was  at  that  moment  swinging  to, 
stopped,  trembled,  then  shut  with  a  vicious  little  bang. 
The  Colonel  could  make  a  near  enough  guess  at  the 
expression  of  the  face  on  the  other  side  of  it.  He 
smiled  benevolently. 

"Silly  lady!  She  thinks  I  have  turned  against  my 
friend  Miles — whom,  by  the  way,  she  worships  on  her 
own  account.  Far  from  it,  I  miss  him  abominably. 
But  when  it  comes  to  a  choice  between  him  and  Dick 
— and  where  my  girl  is  concerned — why,  then,  I  con- 
fess, I'm  all  for  the  younger  man  and  the  older 
suitor. 


184 


XVII 

"miles's  beggars" 

Iris  Lodge,  during  the  first  half  of  August,  became 
for  once  gay,  not  to  say  festive — in  a  small  way,  as 
befitted  a  first  experiment.  Maurice  managed  to  wrest 
his  hard-earned  annual  holiday  from  the  bank,  and,  on 
the  very  first  day  of  the  fourteen  allotted  him,  back 
came  Dick  from  abroad,  bringing  with  him  his  friend 
Flint.  After  a  remarkable  display  of  obstinacy  on  this 
gentleman's  part,  Dick  had  at  last  prevailed  upon  him 
to  leave  his  tenants  to  their  own  devices  for  one  more 
week,  and  tarry  by  the  Thames.  But,  though  this  was 
brought  about  by  dint  of  hard  persuading,  in  the  end 
Mr.  Flint  somehow  saw  his  way  to  doubling  the  week 
which  at  first  he  had  grudgingly  promised. 

In  his  excuse  it  can  only  be  urged  that  he  enjoyed 
himself  beyond  expectation.  The  weather  was  very 
nearly  faultless,  the  river  at  its  best,  formalities  few, 
and  the  ladies — charming.  The  lawn-tennis  court — 
though  several  inches  short — was  quite  of  the  billiard- 
table  order.  The  music  in  the  evenings,  though  it  did 
not  run  in  a  man's  head,  possessed  a  certain  odd, 
mysterious,  soothing,  saddening,  pleasing  quality,  that 
silenced  one  at  the  time,  and  left  an  impression  that 
Miss  Edmonstone  could  make  her  piano  speak,  if  she 
tried.     Perhaps   it    was   classical   music;   very  hkely 

185 


At  Large 


Chopin.  Lastly — and  last  thing — the  spirituous  night- 
cap, though  approached  in  a  spirit  of  moderation,  had 
a  way  of  imparting  the  proper  Eucalyptian  flavour  to 
all  reminiscences  of  life  among  the  gum-trees.  Could 
there  be  better  conditions  for  a  pleasant  visit?  Flint 
asked  himself.  And  if  the  house  was  the  smallest  he 
had  ever  stayed  in,  would  not  Castle  Flint  seem  cheer- 
less, vast,  sepulchral,  by  comparison? 

But  indeed  they  were  wonderfully  bright  and  happy 
days:  the  ones  on  the  river,  when,  in  the  bushmen's 
phrase,  they  all  "  camped,"  and  Flint  made  tea  in  true 
bush  fashion,  and  Dick  a  "  damper  "  which  no  one  but 
bushmen  could  eat;  the  afternoons  at  tennis,  spent  in 
wonderfully  keen,  if  not  deeply  scientific,  struggles; 
the  morning  at  Hampton  Court,  when  Flint  owned 
himself  completely  "  bushed  "  in  the  Maze,  and  when 
they  were  all  photographed  on  the  Green,  bringing 
away  with  them  the  atrocious  result  in  a  gilt  frame; 
and  the  day  when  Dick  hired  the  four-in-hand  (it 
created  some  sensation  in  the  little  road)  and  drove 
them  all  through  Chertsey  and  Ascot,  to  Windsor,  and 
back  by  Staines  and  Shepperton. 

Certainly  any  outsider  must  have  voted  them  a 
jovial,  light-hearted  party,  without  a  serious  care  to 
divide  among  them;  and  even  Flint,  who  had  some 
power  of  observation,  and  also  knew  his  friend  thor- 
oughly— even  Flint  told  himself  that  old  Dick  had  got 
back  his  good  spirits,  and  was,  in  fact,  "  getting  over  it." 
But  Flint  did  not  know.  Ever  since  their  hurried  inter- 
view on  the  2nd  of  July,  Dick  had  been  as  reticent  as 
he  had  then  been  communicative  of  all  that  lay  nearest 
his  heart. 

1 86 


cc 


Miles's  Beggars 


Yet  never  for  one  moment  did  Dick  forget.  He  had 
no  wish  to  forget.  So  long  as  he  could  keep  his  disap- 
pointment to  himself,  deep  down  within  him,  he  would 
suffer  and  smile.  For  the  sake  of  the  others  he  could 
not  rise  in  his  place  at  the  feast  and  declare  himself  the 
skeleton  he  felt.  They  must  find  it  out  sooner  or  later 
— then  let  it  be  later.  Here  his  thoughts  were  all  of  his 
mother  and  Fanny;  they  would  be  heart-broken  when 
he  told  them  of  his  determination  to  go  back  to  Aus- 
tralia. But  a  determination  it  was,  growing  more  solid 
day  by  day,  though  as  yet  told  only  to  Colonel  Bristo, 
and  that  in  the  unguarded  spontaneity  of  sudden  emo- 
tion. But  as  for  his  people,  better  tell  them  just  before 
he  went — say  the  week  before,  or  why  not  on  the  very 
day  of  saiHng?  Why  make  them  unhappy  before  their 
time,  when  their  happiness  in  having  him  back  was  still 
boundless? 

After  all,  it  would  only  be  a  temporary  trouble;  for 
Dick  had  evolved  a  great  scheme  for  the  future,  which 
was  this:  He  would  go  out  and  buy  a  small  station  in 
a  first-rate  district — at  arm's  length,  indeed,  from  towns 
and  railroads,  but  still  just  in  touch  with  civilisation. 
Then  he  would  send  home  for  them  all.  Yes,  all.  For 
Maurice  would  make  an  ideal  book-keeper.  Fanny 
would  revel  in  the  life,  and  Mrs.  Edmonstone  would 
certainly  prefer  it  to  the  small  house  at  Teddington. 
This  plan  was  conceived,  matured,  calculated  out,  and 
found  feasible,  during  the  many  long  summer  nights 
wherein  Dick  never  closed  his  eyes,  when  perhaps  it 
was  well  that  there  was  this  object  of  focus  for  his 
mind. 

As  for  his  attitude  towards  Flint,  Dick  was  well 
187 


At  Large 


aware  that  his  access  of  reserve,  after  the  way  in  which 
he  had  unburdened  his  soul  at  their  first  meeting,  must 
appear  strangely  inconsistent.  He  had  rushed  to  join 
his  friend  on  the  Continent,  travelled  with  him  for 
nearly  a  month,  and  not  told  him  another  word  of  his 
affairs.  It  could  not  be  helped;  it  would  be  impossible 
to  tell  Flint  anything  of  what  had  followed  their  first 
talk  at  Teddington  without  making  a  clean  breast 
of  his  discovery  that  Miles  the  Australian  was  no  other 
than  Sundown  the  bushranger,  and  this  Dick  would 
not  tell  a  soul  unless  Miles  broke  faith  with  him.  Least 
of  all  would  he  confide  in  Flint,  for  Fhnt  would  be  the 
very  first  to  turn  round  and  call  him  madman. 

Nevertheless  the  days  seemed  to  chase  each  other 
pleasantly  enough  for  one  and  all,  actually  doing  so 
for  all  but  one;  and,  as  always  happens  in  such  cases, 
the  fortnight  drew  far  too  quickly  to  its  close. 

"  To-day  is  Thursday — the  Twelfth,  by-the-bye — 
and  here  we  are  within  sight  of  Sunbury  Lock ;  and  on 
Monday,  and  ever  afterwards,  the  bank;  the  blessed 
bank!" 

This  cheerful  reminder  proceeded  (one  day  up  the 
river)  from  the  lips  and  soul  of  the  man  in  the  stern, 
who  was  steering.  There  was  a  sympathetic  groan 
from  the  man  in  the  bows,  who  was  smoking.  The 
working  half  of  the  crew  received  the  observation, 
which  was  thrown  out  gratuitously  to  all,  in  business- 
like silence,  broken  only  by  the  flash  of  four  sculls  as 
one,  and  the  swish  of  the  feather  blades  through  the 
air.  The  groan  in  the  bows  was  followed  by  a  reflection 
of  kindred  pathos,  delivered  in  a  high  key: 

"We  will  call  next  Monday  Black  Monday;  for  to 
1 88 


"Miles's  Beggars" 

me  it  means  Holyhead,  Dublin,  Kerry,  and  tenants! 
blessed  tenants !  But  not  for  always,"  added  Flint  sud- 
denly; "I  don't  say  'ever  afterwards;'  why  should 
you?  Why  should  I  be  a  slave  to  my  Castle  and  you 
to  your  City?    Why  shouldn't  we  emigrate  together?  " 

No  one  in  the  boat  could  see  the  speaker's  face; 
it  was  impossible  to  tell  whether  he  was  jesting  or 
serious. 

"Oh,  I'm  game!"  cried  Maurice,  very  much  in 
earnest  at  once. 

"  Well,  then,  just  hold  on  till  I  give  Castle  Flint  the 
sack." 

"  Or  until  it  is  sacked  about  your  ears,"  suggested 
stroke  jerkily.  "  But  what  nonsense  you  two  are  talk- 
ing!  " 

"  Not  at  all.  Miss  Edmonstone — if  you  will  allow 
me.  You  can't  expect  a  man  to  live  out  his  life  in 
troubled  Ireland  when  there's  a  happy  Australia  to  go 
to:  there,  you  know,  you  may  combine  the  blessings 
of  liberty,  equality,  and  Home  Rule  of  the  most  ad- 
vanced kind,  with  the  peculiar  satisfaction  of  calling 
yourself  a  staunch  Tory,  and  believing  it !  But  as  for 
our  friend  here,  station  life  would  add  a  year  to  his  life 
for  every  year  the  City  is  capable  of  shortening  it. 
He'd  make  a  first-rate  jackeroo." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  What's  a  jackeroo?  Oh,  a  young  gentleman — for 
choice,  the  newest  new  chum  to  be  found — who  goes 
to  a  station  to  get  Colonial  experience.  He  has  to 
work  like  a  nigger,  and  revels  in  it,  for  a  bit.  If  he 
is  a  black  sheep,  and  has  the  antique  ideas  of  the  Colo- 
nies held  by  those  who  sent  him  out  to  whiten  him, 

189 


At   Large 


his  illusions  may  last  a  couple  of  days;  if  he  has  read 
up  Australia  on  the  voyage,  they  will  probably  hold 
out  a  little  longer,  while  he  keeps  looking  for  what  his 
book  told  him  he  would  find;  the  fact  being  that  the 
modern  bush  life  hasn't  yet  been  done  into  English, 
Meanwhile  he  runs  up  the  horses,  rides  round  bounda- 
ries, mends  fences,  drives  sheep  to  water — if  it  is  a 
drought — and  skins  the  dead  ones,  weighs  out  flour 
and  sugar,  cleans  harness,  camps  anywhere,  and  lives 
on  mutton  and  damper,  and  tea," 

"  But  what  does  he  get  for  all  that?  "  asked  Maurice, 
with  visions  of  money-bags. 

"  Rations  and  experience,"  replied  Flint  promptly. 
"  When  he's  admitted  to  be  worth  his  salt  he  will  be 
asked  to  make  other  arrangements.  Then  some  still 
newer  new  chum  will  be  selected  for  the  post,  through 
the  introductions  he  has  brought  to  the  stock  and 
station  agents,  and  in  his  turn  will  drive  his  teeth  into 
the  dirty  work  of  the  station,  which  the  ordinary 
pound-a-week  hands  refuse,  and  so  get  his  Colonial 
experience! " 

"Thanks;  I'll  stop  where  I  am,"  said  Maurice. 

"  He  isn't  fair,"  said  Dick,  speaking  for  the  first 
time.  "  You  know  you  aren't  fair,  old  chap,  raking 
up  your  own  case  as  typical,  when  it  was  exceptional. 
Jackeroos  are  treated  all  right,  and  paid  too,  so  long 
as  they're  smart  and  willing — the  two  things  needful. 
Come,  I've  been  a  squatter  myself,  and  can't  hear  my 
class  run  down." 

"  You  won't  hear  me  defend  the  landlords  on  that 
ground,"  remarked  Flint,  who  had  contracted  eccentric 
politics. 

190 


C( 


Miles's  Beggars" 


"  Well,"  said  Dick,  experimentally,  "  if  I  go  back 
to  it,  Maurice  shall  be  my  jackeroo,  and  judge  for 
himself  whether  you  haven't  painted  us  too  black." 

He  shipped  his  oars.  Flint  was  standing  up  with 
the  boat-hook  to  pilot  them  through  the  open  lock- 
gates. 

"  Then  I'll  ride  the  boundaries!  "  cried  Fanny,  who 
sat  a  horse  like  a  leech,  but  had  had  no  mount  for 
years. 

"  In  that  case,"  added  Flint  quietly,  "  I'll  apply 
for  overseer's  billet,  with  the  right  of  sacking  slack 
hands." 

For  a  moment  Dick  looked  really  pleased:  this  jest- 
ing about  a  station  in  Australia  was,  so  far,  feeling  the 
way,  and  might  make  matters  a  trifle  easier  when  the 
time  came.  But  the  smile  quickly  faded  from  his  face. 
In  truth,  on  no  day  during  these  last  weeks  had  he 
been  so  troubled  in  spirit,  so  tossed  between  the  cross- 
currents of  conflicting  feelings. 

That  morning  he  had  received  two  letters,  appar- 
ently of  contrary  character:  for  while  the  perusal  of 
one  gratified  him  so  intensely  that  he  could  not  help 
handing  it  round  for  them  all  to  see,  the  mere  sight  of 
the  other  was  sufficient  to  make  him  thrust  the  un- 
opened envelope  hurriedly  into  his  pocket. 

The  first  letter  was  indeed  a  matter  for  congratula- 
tion, for  it  was  the  most  completely  satisfactory,  though 
not  the  first,  of  several  similar  communications  which 
Dick  had  received  since  his  return  from  Australia.  It 
was  a  short  note  from  the  editor  of  the  "  Illustrated 
British  Monthly,"  accepting  (for  immediate  use:  a 
great  point)  a  set  of  sketches  entitled  "  Home  from 

191 


At  Large 


Australia,"  which  set  forth  the  humours  and  trials  of 
a  long  sea  voyage,  and  were,  in  fact,  simply  a  finished 
reproduction  of  those  sketches  that  had  delighted  the 
passengers  on  board  the  Hesper.  But  it  was  more 
than  a  mere  formal  acceptance:  besides  enclosing  a 
cheque  (in  itself  a  charming  feature)  to  meet  the  pres- 
ent case,  the  note  contained  a  complimentary  allusion 
to  the  quality  of  the  "  work,"  and  a  distinct  hint  for  the 
future.  This  in  a  postscript — observing  that  as  Aus- 
tralian subjects  were  somewhat  in  demand  since  the 
opening  of  the  Colonial  Exhibition — he  (the  editor) 
would  be  glad  to  see  anything  thoroughly  Australian 
that  Mr.  Edmonstone  might  chance  to  have  ready. 

Of  course  the  precious  note  was  read  aloud,  and 
greeted  with  cries  of  delight.  Fancy  an  opening  with 
the  "Illustrated  British"  at  this  stage!  What  could 
be  better?  And  it  did  look  like  a  real  opening.  The 
hero  of  the  moment  alone  sat  silent;  the  unread  letter 
in  his  pocket  checked  his  speech;  it  was  from  York- 
shire. 

"  Why  did  you  ever  leave  us,  when  you  can  do  so 
splendidly  here  at  home?  "  Mrs.  Edmonstone  asked 
him,  half  in  regret  for  the  past,  half  in  joy  for  the 
future. 

Flint  saw  his  friend's  preoccupation,  and  answered 
for  him. 

"  He  didn't  know  it  was  in  him  till  he  got  out  there, 
I  fancy.  I  remember  him  sending  his  first  things  to 
the  Melbourne  and  Sydney  papers;  and  before  a  year 
was  out,  his  famous  buck-jumping  picture  was  stuck 
up  in  every  shanty  in  New  South  Wales  and  Vic- 
toria." 

192 


a 


Miles's  Beggars 


"  Eh?  "  said  Dick,  looking  up  abruptly.  "  Oh,  they 
coloured  it  vilely!  What  do  you  say,  mother?  No, 
I  say,  don't  jump  to  conclusions.  How  do  you  know 
I  can  do  any  real  good?  I've  been  lucky  so  far,  but 
I'm  only  at  the  very,  very  beginning.  I  may  fail  miser- 
ably after  all.  And  then  where  should  I  be  without 
my  little  pile?" 

After  breakfast  Dick  read  the  letter  from  Yorkshire 
in  his  own  room. 

"  At  the  risk  of  being  unduly  persistent,"  wrote 
Colonel  Bristo,  "  I  must  ask  you  to  reconsider  your 
decision."  (Dick  had  refused  a  short  but  pressing 
invitation  the  week  before.)  "  I  know  something  of 
your  reasons  for  refusing,  and  I  believe  them  to  be 
mistaken  reasons.  If  you  have  really  settled  to  return 
to  Australia,  that  is  all  the  more  reason  why  you  should 
come.  If  you  like,  I  will  undertake  not  to  press  you 
to  stay  beyond  one  day ;  only  do  come  to  bid  us  good- 
bye. Do  not,  however,  fear  to  offend  me  by  a  second 
refusal.  I  shall  be  grievously  disappointed,  but  noth- 
ing more.  We  really  want  you,  for  we  shall  be  short 
of  guns ;  two  of  the  men  only  stay  till  Monday,  so  come 
on  that  day.  But  apart  from  all  this,  I  am  very  sure 
that  your  coming  will  make  the  days  a  little  less  dull 
and  dreary  for  one  of  us.    Everything  else  has  failed." 

The  letter  ended  abruptly.  Dick  read  it  through 
twice,  and  put  it  back  in  his  pocket  with  a  full  heart. 

But  what  was  he  to  do?  Here  was  the  good  Colonel 
honestly  trying,  in  his  own  way,  to  set  matters  right 
between  him  and  Alice;  but  it  was  a  childlike,  if  not  a 
childish  way — a  way  that  ignored  causes  and  refused 
to  realise  effects. 

193 


At  Large 


Dick  trusted  he  was  no  s:uch  fool  as  to  be  affected 
by  the  hope  that  breathed  in  the  Colonel's  letter.  The 
Colonel  was  confessedly  unversed  in  women's  ways — 
then  why  did  he  meddle?  Surely  it  would  have  been 
more  natural,  more  dignified,  to  send  him,  Dick,  to 
the  deuce,  or  to  the  Colonies — they  were  much  the 
same  thing  in  the  Old  Country — than  to  waste  another 
thought  on  the  man  whom  his  own  daughter  (who 
could  surely  judge  for  herself)  had  chosen  to  jilt? 
Dick  savagely  wished  that  the  former  had  been  his 
treatment;  and,  rowing  down  from  Sunbury  that  after- 
noon, he  was  so  far  decided  that  the  phrases  of  his 
refusal  were  in  his  head.  Call  it  rude,  churlish,  obsti- 
nate; he  was  obstinate,  and  was  willing  to  own  it;  he 
had  refused  the  Colonel  once,  and  that  refusal  should 
be  final. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  absent  and  distrait  all  day, 
whereas  the  others  were  in  rather  higher  spirits  than 
usual,  and  the  contrast  was  uncomfortable.  Dick 
therefore  invented  an  excuse  for  running  up  to  town, 
promising  himself  a  quiet  corner  of  his  club,  in  which 
to  write  to  the  Colonel  and  pull  himself  together.  He 
needed  pulling  together:  he  was  yearning  to  see  Alice 
again — perhaps  only  to  ask  her  forgiveness  and  bid 
her  good-bye — yet  vowing  between  his  teeth  to  see 
her  no  more;  he  would  not  be  entirely  himself  until  his 
refusal  was  penned  and  posted. 

He  walked  absently  to  the  station,  forgot  his  change 
at  the  ticket-office,  and  jumped  into  the  nearest  com- 
partment of  the  first  train  that  came  in.  A  man  and 
a  woman  got  into  the  same  compartment.  Dick  did 
not  see  them,  for  he  was  attempting  to  interest  him- 

194 


"Miles's  Beggars 


»> 


self  in  an  evening  paper;  but  he  could  not  help  hearing 
their  voices  as  they  sat  opposite  him  in  close  conversa- 
tion. And,  hearing,  Dick  was  startled.  His  pulse 
beat  violently;  his  fingers  tightened  upon  the  edges  of 
the  newspaper. 

"  His  fine  friends,"  the  man  was  saying,  "  are  gone 
into  the  country  somewhere.  We  must  find  out 
where." 

The  tones  were  Jem  Pound's. 

"Why?"  asked  the  same  woman's  voice  that  Dick 
had  heard  in  Bushey  Park. 

"  Because  if  Ned  Ryan  hasn't  fled  the  country,  that's 
where  he  is!  " 

"  But  he  has  gone  back  to  Australia." 

"  Not  he!  He  daren't  go  out  there  again.  He'd  be 
a  fool  to  do  it  if  he  dared.  No,  no.  He  cleared  out 
o'  this  because  of  you  and  me.  He  cracked  he  was 
going  out  there  again,  because  he  knew  we'd  come 
asking  after  him  and  they'd  tell  us  that  yarn.  But 
he's  no  more  gone  than  I  have.  Mark  me,  missis, 
we'll  find  him  at  this  here  Colonel's  country  placet 
But  we  must  find  the  place  first." 

Dick  did  not  lower  his  paper  until  the  train  reached 
Waterloo.  Long  before  that  his  mind  was  filled  with 
one  absorbing  idea.  A  swift  but  complete  reaction 
had  taken  place  within  him;  he  was  charged  with 
nervous  energy  and  primed  with  impatience.  Some 
of  the  impatience  he  worked  oflF  in  a  rapid  walk  to 
his  club,  where  he  answered  Colonel  Bristo's  note  in 
a  dozen  words;  but  one  idea  continued  in  fierce  pos- 
session of  his  mind,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others. 


195 


XVIII 

ALICE   SPEAKS   FOR   HERSELF 

Monday,  August  9th. — Here  we  are  at  last,  at  the 
shooting  box  on  the  Yorkshire  moors;  or  rather  in 
the  Yorkshire  dales.  I  mean,  papa  and  I  are  here: 
our  faithful  Mrs,  Parish  follows  to-morrow,  and  the 
"  guns  "  are  expected  on  Wednesday.  We  two  have 
been  staying  at  a  little  seaside  place  on  the  coast — 
quite  a  charming  place,  with  not  only  broad  sands,  but 
very  presentable  cliflfs,  and  other  things  worth  looking 
at  besides  the  sea;  delightful  gardens,  for  instance, 
where  the  inevitable  band  played,  instead  of  on  the 
everlasting  pier.  Of  course,  it  was  all  rather  tedious; 
but  the  North  Sea  breezes  and  the  delicious  air  did 
one  no  harm,  I  felt,  while  they  seemed  to  do  papa 
visible  good.  Indeed,  he  declares  he  feels  lit  for  any- 
thing now — meaning,  of  course,  in  the  way  of  sport, 
which  I  only  hope  he  won't  overdo.  So  perhaps,  after 
all,  we  did  well  to  leave  home  a  week  earlier  than  we 
at  first  intended  (much  as  I  hated  leaving  home  at 
all),  for  we  have  come  to  the  moorland  air  with  lungs 
full  of  sea-air,  and  papa  says  there  couldn't  be  a  liner 
mixture  than  that  for  me. 

But  it  is  difficult  to  think  of  the  sea  here  in  the  dales, 
where  we  are  so  far  from  it.  We  are  far  from  every- 
thing, as  it  seems  to  me.    Yet  I  am  told,  and  I  sup- 

196 


Alice  Speaks  for  Herself 

pose  I  must  believe,  that  the  great  smoky  town  which 
we  passed  through  the  other  clay  is  within  twenty 
miles  of  us,  and  we  are  assured  that  there  is  a  very 
**  canny  "  village — if  not  a  small  town — four  or  five 
miles  from  us.  It  is  also  true  that  it  only  took  an  hour 
and  twenty  minutes  to  drive  from  the  railway  station, 
but  then  there  wasn't  much  of  a  village  there.  Now 
we  expected  to  find  one  here,  and  papa  even  professed 
to  point  it  out  to  me  as  we  drove  through;  but  as  it 
was  nearly  dark,  and  I  could  only  make  out  a  short, 
huddled-up  row  of  houses  on  one  side  of  the  road, 
I  couldn't  see  where  the  village  came  in,  and  told  him 
so.  Still,  it  is  down  on  the  Ordnance  map,  Gateby  by 
name;  and,  though  it  is  too  dark  to  see  now,  it  can 
only  be  a  few  hundred  yards  from  us. 

As  for  this  house! — which,  by-the-bye,  is  nameless 
— I  am  sure  it  has  never  been  anything  but  a  shooting 
box,  for  it  has  no  pretence  to  a  garden,  but  stands 
behind  a  hedge  almost  in  a  bare  field — a  plain,  gaunt, 
two-storied,  evenly-balanced  stone  building.  In  the 
three  rooms  down  stairs  there  is  very  littlfe  furniture, 
except  what  we  sent  before  us.  In  one  of  them,  the 
smallest,  a  book-case  with  glass  doors  has  been  made 
into  a  gun-rack,  and  this  may  point  to  the  fact  that 
the  place  was  not  always  what  it  is.  This  room  we  will 
call  "  the  gun-room."  Whether  it  was  built  for  better 
things,  I  don't  know;  but  for  ages  the  house  has  been 
let  year  after  year  for  the  shooting  alone. 

At  this  moment  an  old  man,  with  a  pale  blue  eye 
and  a  bright  red  nose,  who  is  apparently  caretaker  and 
general  factotum  of  the  establishment,  is  expatiating 
to  papa  on  the  birds:  their  probable  quantity  and  un- 

197 


At  Large 


mistakable  quality;  but  he  has  a  barbarous  tongue, 
and  for  my  part  I  am  too  tired  to  listen  to  him  any 
longer. 

Yes,  tired — and  sleepy  too.  If  writing  a  diary  has 
always  this  effect  upon  me,  it  will  more  than  fulfil  its 
original  mission — which  was  only  to  help  me  to  pass 
the  intolerable  time! 

Tuesday,  loth. — I  was  up  and  out  quite  early,  long 
before  breakfast,  on  a  voyage  of  discovery.  The  first 
thing  I  had  seen,  on  drawing  up  my  blind,  was  red- 
tiled  Gateby,  straight  in  front  of  my  window,  across 
half-a-dozen  fields.  I  could  see  a  path  winding  through 
these  fields,  and  coming  out  into  the  road  just  below 
our  house;  so  on  this  pathway  I  settled  for  my  first 
walk.  I  could  see  that  it  was  the  shortest  way  to 
Gateby.    I  would  inspect  Gateby. 

It  was  a  perfect  morning,  with  plenty  of  sunshine 
and  blue  sky,  and  the  last  of  a  soft  white  mist  just 
filling  up  the  hollows  of  the  meadows;  so  that  I  knew 
that  it  would  be  a  hot  day,  as,  in  fact,  it  is. 

When  I  had  followed  the  path  across  the  fields  until 
I  had  only  two  left  to  cross  (and  these  were  a  potato 
field  and  a  meadow,  from  which  a  boy  was  driving  in 
the  cows),  I  stopped  and  perched  myself  on  a  stone 
gate-post,  and  surveyed  Gateby.  From  there  it  looked 
like  one  long  low  irregular  building,  stone-built  and 
red-tiled.  Only  one  house,  and  that  at  the  extreme  left 
of  the  rest,  was  slated.  More  of  Gateby  I  could  not 
see  from  there,  so  I  went  on  looking  all  round  me. 
Over  the  village  rose  the  hills,  with  bold  but  even  out- 
line. The  hillsides  are  so  evenly  divided  by  the  hedges 
into  so  many  squares  that  they  look  as  though  great 

198 


Alice  Speaks  for  Herself 

nets  had  been  cast  over  them.  The  squares  have  all 
kinds  of  colours — greens,  and  yellows,  and  dirty 
browns  (of  ploughed  fields).  Following  the  bend  of 
the  valley,  as  the  fields  grew  less  in  perspective, 
I  noticed  that  they  took  a  commoner  tint,  between 
pale  green  and  dun,  until  the  farthest  range  of  all 
showed  a  uniform  greyish-blue.  I  did  not  expect  to 
be  able  to  see  half  so  far  when  deep  down  in  a  dale, 
and  I  thought  the  hills  would  be  higher.  In  fact,  with 
this  particular  dale  of  ours  I  am  a  little  bit  disap- 
pointed ;  for,  instead  of  finding  it  a  deep  furrow  in  the 
face  of  Nature,  as  I  had  made  up  my  mind  it  would  be, 
it  is,  after  all,  the  veriest  dimple. 

Well,  Gateby  is  a  quaint  enough  little  place  when 
you  attack  it  fairly,  from  the  front,  as  I  presently  did. 
It  has  about  a  dozen  houses  all  told,  and  they  are  all 
on  one  side  of  the  road,  and  hug  each  other  as  though 
space  were  an  object  of  the  first  importance.  Several 
of  the  houses  are,  at  least,  demi-semi-detached.  The 
largest  of  them  is  the  public-house ;  the  best  the  school- 
house,  the  front  of  which  is  simply  one  mass  of  pink 
roses — I  never  saw  anything  like  it. 

I  walked  back  by  the  road.  The  pathway  through 
the  fields  merely  cuts  off,  I  now  found,  the  angle  made 
by  the  two  roads:  the  road  in  which  we  are,  which 
leads  over  the  moor,  and  the  road  in  which  Gateby 
is,  which  leads  in  one  direction  to  the  railway,  six  miles 
off,  and  in  the  other — I  don't  know  where.  These 
two  roads  join  at  right  angles,  and  I  believe  they  are 
the  only  roads  in  the  dale. 

Nearing  home,  I  met  the  person  with  the  gay- 
coloured  nose  and  eyes,  and  he  stopped  to  bid  me 

199 


At  Large 


good  morning.  I  thought  his  complexion  looked  a 
little  cooler,  but  then  it  was  very  early  morning.  He 
inquired,  with  some  pride  and  expectancy,  what  I 
thought  of  the  dale.  I  answered,  rather  unkindly  I  am 
afraid,  that  I  thought  it  pretty,  but  a  fraud:  the  hills 
were  too  low,  the  valleys  were  too  shallow. 

"  Ah !  "  he  observed  compassionately,  "  waat  till 
thoo's  been  ower  t'  mower,  an'  seen  t'  view  from 
Melmerbridge  Bank;  an'  waat  till  thoo  sees  Beck- 
daal!" 

He  went  on  to  tell  me  all  about  Melmerbridge. 
I  almost  think  he  offered  to  personally  conduct  me 
over  to  Melmerbridge,  and  to  show  me  its  church,  and 
its  beck,  and  the  view  from  its  bank.  At  any  rate, 
before  I  could  get  away  from  him  I  had  learnt  that 
his  name  was  Andy  Garbutt,  and  that  he  had  been 
eight  and  twenty  years,  man  and  boy,  come  next 
Michaelmas,  in  the  service  of  the  owner  of  our  name- 
less shooting-box. 

I  found  papa  ready  for  breakfast,  and  delighted  to 
find  that  I  had  been  out  and  about  so  early ;  there  was 
no  need  to  tell  him  that  it  was  simply  because  I  could 
not  sleep  or  rest.  And  of  course  we  both  duly  voted 
the  real  Yorkshire  bacon  the  very  best  we  had  ever 
tasted  in  our  two  lives;  though,  for  my  part,  I  must 
own  I  only  swallowed  it  to  please  papa,  whose  eye  was 
upon  my  plate. 

In  the  afternoon  we  walked  up  to  the  moor  together, 
and  papa  was  charmed  because  we  "  put  up  "  quite  a 
number  of  birds.  I  could  not  stay  long,  however,  as 
papa  wished  me  to  drive  off  to  meet  Mrs.  Parish,  and  I 
am  writing  this  while  waiting  for  the  trap,  because, 

200 


Alice  Speaks  for  Herself 

somehow,  I  cannot  settle  to  reading — not  even  yellow- 
backs. A  horrid  nuisance,  her  coming!  I  do  wish  it 
had  not  been  just  yet.  By-the-bye,  papa  tells  me  he 
has  heard  from  Mr.  Miles,  who,  after  all,  has  not  yet 
left  England,  his  business  having  turned  out  different 
from  what  he  expected.  Then  how  strange  that  we 
have  never  heard  from  him  all  these  weeks!  I  quite 
thought  he  would  be  out  there  by  this  time.  However, 
he  says  he  really  does  sail  in  a  few  days,  and  he  only 
wishes  he  saw  his  way  to  running  down  to  say  good- 
bye to  us — but  that  will  be  impossible.  I  believe  papa 
has  written  to  him,  telling  him  all  about  the  place,  and 
the  prospects,  and  who  are  coming.  I  am  not  sorry 
that  he  is  not  coming,  I  think.  This  reminds  me  that 
papa  says  that  Dick  Edmonstone  has  written  saying 
that  he  cannot  possibly  come.  I  am  not  at  all  sorry  to 
hear  that.    I  think  he  shows  his  sense. 

Thursday,  12th. — Everybody  came  yesterday;  and 
now  they  are  all  on  the  moor,  and  we  two  women  are 
to  go  and  have  lunch  with  them  at  one.  There  are 
five  guns,  and  we  hear  them  distinctly  from  time  to 
time.  Besides  papa,  there  are  Cousin  Philip  (who  likes 
to  be  called  Doctor  Robson  now),  and  Laurence 
Pinckney,  and  Captain  Awdry,  and  Mr.  Oliver. 

Cousin  Philip  has  been  a  long  voyage  to  New  Zea- 
land and  back,  as  ship's  surgeon,  since  we  last  saw 
him.  It  ought  to  have  improved  him,  and  perhaps  it 
has;  but  to  me  he  seems  as  dull  and  ponderous  and 
undecided  as  ever.  He  tells  me  that  he  interested 
himself  at  sea  by  getting  up  prayer-meetings  in  the 
steerage,  which,  he  says,  had  far  more  heart  in  thern 
than  the  captain's  perfunctory  services  on  the  quarter- 

201 


At  Large 


deck;  but  it  seems  that  his  zeal  got  him  disliked — most 
unrighteously — by  the  other  officers.  He  is  certainly 
a  good  young  man.  Captain  Awdry  I  have  met  once 
or  twice  before;  he  is  a  great  beauty,  a  great  sports- 
man, and  that's  all;  but  Mr.  Oliver  is  new  to  me,  I 
fancy  he  is  local — an  ironmaster  or  something.  He  is 
old,  and  tall,  and  well  set-up;  very  deferential  to  me, 
if  you  please,  and  tremendously  keen  about  the  grouse. 
As  for  Laurence  Pinckney — one  has  to  call  him  Mr. 
Pinckney  now — he  is  nothing  short  of  a  revelation. 

When  I  knew  him  before,  he  used  to  go  to  some 
public  school — I  forget  which,  but  it  can't  be  many 
years  ago.  And  now  he  is  a  "  writing  man,"  fresh 
from  Fleet-street,  with  all  the  jargon  at  his  tongue's 
end — and,  in  short,  quite  the  most  amusing  boy.  In 
appearance  he  is  just  what  he  ought  not  to  be.  I  have 
always  pictured  to  myself  the  literary  man — especially 
the  literary  young  man — with  long  hair  and  eye- 
glasses, and  the  rest  bizarre.  Therefore  Laurence 
Pinckney  disappoints  me;  he  is  spruce,  brisk,  and 
sharp-eyed,  short,  dark,  and  unguarded. 

He  sat  next  me  at  dinner,  and  talked  nothing  but 
his  "  shop  " — which,  however,  is  a  kind  of  "  shop  " 
that  rather  interests  one ;  besides,  the  egotism  of  a  raw 
recruit  in  the  noble  army  of  authors  is  really  diverting. 
He  talks  fluently  about  all  the  new  books,  criticising 
most  of  them  severely,  and  I  should  say  that  he  has 
read  and  remembered  at  least  two  or  three  reviews  of 
each.  He  has  told  me  the  different  magazines  he 
writes  for,  so  that  I  shall  know  where  to  seek  his  name 
— if  I  don't  forget.  He  "  thinks  nothing  of  bearding 
literary  lions   in   their   editorial   dens ; "  and  this,   I 

202 


Alice  Speaks  for  Herself 

shouldn't  wonder,  has  something  to  do  with  that 
drawer  full  of  rejected  MSS.  of  which  he  has  already 
been  frank  enough  to  whisper — in  fact,  he  has  quite 
taken  me  into  his  literary  confidence.  But  indeed  he 
is  rather  amusing. 

Friday,  13th. — Mrs.  Parish  is  really  very  agreeable, 
and  easier  to  get  on  with  than  for  a  long  while  past. 
She  tells  me,  among  other  things,  that  she  saw  more 
of  Mr.  Miles's  beggars  after  we  left  home — caught 
them  talking  to  the  servants,  and  packed  them  off 
about  their  business.  Poor  things!  From  her  ac- 
count, I  rather  fancy  they  were  the  same  I  saw.  She 
went  with  me  to  luncheon  on  the  moor  yesterday.  It 
was  really  not  bad  fun.  They  were  all  in  good  spirits, 
because,  on  the  whole,  they  had  made  a  good  start. 
Captain  Awdry  had  done  the  most  execution,  and  took 
it  the  most  sadly.  But  old  Mr.  Oliver  had  drawn  first 
blood,  and,  unlike  the  blase  Captain,  was  not  above 
showing  his  delight.  Papa  and  Cousin  Philip  were 
modest  about  their  share :  it  was  impossible  to  find  out 
exactly  what  they  had  done.  Poor  Laurence  Pinck- 
ney,  however,  had  hit  nothing  at  all ;  and,  indeed,  his 
shooting  must  be  execrable,  to  judge  by  what  one 
hears.  I  heard  Mr,  Oliver  muttering  that  he  would 
not  get  within  range  of  him,  not  if  he  knew  it ;  while 
Captain  Awdry's  contempt  lies  too  deep  for  smiles  or 
sneers.  But  Mr.  Pinckney  does  not  care ;  he  carries 
a  notebook  with  him,  which  he  whips  out  whenever 
the  view  strikes  him  as  worth  remembering,  or  when- 
ever something  happy  occurs  to  him.  He  says  it  is 
extraordinary  what  happy  thoughts  do  come  to  a  man 
who  carries  a  gun.     I  tell  him  that  to-morrow  he  must 

203 


At  Large 


think  of  nothing  but  his  next  shot.  He  answers  that 
to-morrow  he  must  not  shoot,  as  Saturday  is  always 
a  busy  day  with  him,  wherever  he  is : — on  it  he  writes 
for  his  weekly  paper.  He  calls  it  "  his,"  as  though 
the  paper  belonged  to  him,  and  I  tell  him  so.  He  ex- 
plains that  he  is  "  on  the  staff — practically."  He  keeps 
to  himself  the  name  of  the  paper  and  the  nature  of  his 
contributions :  it  is  best  to  make  no  inquiries,  I  think. 

Saturday,  14th. — Papa  tells  me  that  Dick  has  writ- 
ten to  say  he  finds  he  can  come  after  all,  and  is  com- 
ing. 

Somehow  it  has  been  a  wretched  day.  I  seem  to 
have  done  absolutely  nothing  all  day,  and,  now  that 
it  is  evening,  my  head  aches,  and  I  have  come  upstairs 
quite  early,  though  I  know  I  shall  never  sleep.  Poor 
papa  has  been  saying  he  sees  I  find  it  dull,  and  blam- 
ing himself  because  I  have  no  companion.  As  it  hap- 
pens, that  is,  in  my  eyes,  the  most  joyful  feature  of 
the  business,  but  I  could  not  tell  dear  papa  so ;  and  he 
was  full  of  regrets  that  Cousin  Maggie  was  prevented 
from  coming  at  the  last  moment — a  circumstance  for 
which  I  can  never  be  too  thankful.  Poor  Maggie 
would  have  been  an  infliction  indeed.  She  has  all  the 
heavy  virtues  of  her  brother — and  imagine  a  feminine 
Philip!  That  creature  himself  has  annoyed  me  suf- 
ficiently this  evening:  tacked  himself  on  to  me,  talked 
in  a  low  voice,  looked  like  a  sheep,  and  would  not  be 
snubbed — he  never  would,  and  never  will.  To  escape 
him,  and  for  no  other  reason,  I  sang  a  song  in  response 
to  Laurence  Pinckney's  absurd  pleadings.  But  I  hate 
singing !  I  hate  the  sound  of  my  voice !  I  would  give 
worlds  to  be  away  from  here,  and  at  home  again  and 

204 


Alice  Speaks  for  Herself 

alone.  I  am  tired  of  the  place,  and  to  be  forever  say- 
ing civil  things  to  people  is  insupportable,  and  replying 
to  their  civility-speeches  even  worse.  This  minute  I 
hate  everything  and  everybody,  and  myself  the  worst 
of  all ! 

Sunday,  15th. — I  wrote  some  contemptible  nonsense 
last  night,  when  my  head  was  splitting;  but  I  will  not 
score  it  out ;  if  ever  I  go  mad  these  gradations  will  be 
interesting,  if  not  useful !     .     .     . 

It  is,  by-the-bye,  to-morrow,  papa  tells  me,  that  Dick 
is  coming. 


205 


XIX 

CONTERMINOUS    COURSES 

Between  five  and  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of 
Monday,  August  i6th,  when  the  last  train  but  one 
steamed  into  the  small  station  at  Inglesby,  six  miles 
from  Gateby,  one  passenger  left  it.  He  was  a  tall  man 
in  a  light  tweed  suit.  His  luggage  consisted  of  a  port- 
manteau and  a  gun-case.  After  looking  in  vain  for 
a  conveyance  outside  the  station,  he  found  the  station- 
master  and  asked  where  he  could  get  one  to  take  him 
to  Gateby ;  the  station-master  directed  him  to  the  inn. 

Between  six  and  seven,  but  rather  more  than  an 
hour  later,  the  last  train  of  the  day  came  in.  It  also 
deposited  a  single  passenger — another  sportsman,  for 
he  too  carried  a  gun-case ;  moreover,  he  went  through 
the  same  performance  as  the  last  arrival :  looked  first 
for  a  conveyance  and  then  for  the  station-master,  to 
whom  he  put  the  same  question  about  a  trap  and  Gate- 
by,  and  from  whom  he  received  the  same  direction. 
But  the  official  was  struck  with  the  coincidence,  and 
dropped  a  word  or  two  about  "  the  other  gentleman ;  " 
at  which  this  one,  whose  name  was  Edmonstone, 
started,  though  he  walked  off  to  the  inn,  a  porter  fol- 
lowing with  his  baggage,  without  putting  further 
questions. 

The  inn  had  a  great  square  parlour,  scrupulously 
206 


Conterminous   Courses 

clean  and  flagged  with  red  tiles,  where  Dick  entered, 
and  clattered  on  the  well-scoured  table.  The  person 
of  the  landlady,  who  presently  appeared,  was  in  the 
nicest  harmony  with  floor  and  furniture,  so  neat  and 
spotless,  and  in  hand  and  face  so  very  red.  Her 
speech,  however,  as  she  asked  what  was  wanted,  was 
by  way  of  being  rough. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  said  Edmonstone,  "  two  glasses 
of  beer  " ;  and  presently  handed  one  to  the  porter,  who 
tendered  his  respects,  received  sixpence,  repeated  his 
respects  with  emphasis,  and  withdrew.  "  In  the  next 
place  a  horse  and  trap." 

"  We've  no  bosses  an'  traps  here,  yooung  man." 

"  Come  now !  "  said  Dick.  "  They  told  me  at  the 
station  this  was  just  the  place  where  there  was  one." 

"  Mebbe  it  is,  but  it's  out  now.  Where  is't  ye  want 
to  be?" 

"  Gateby." 

"  Gaatby !  Why,  that's  where  it's  gone  with  t'other 
gentleman !  " 

"  Indeed?     To  Colonel  Bristo's,  do  you  know?  " 

"  That  was  it." 

"  It's  a  pity  I  didn't  come  by  the  other  train !  "  His 
tone  puzzled  the  woman.  "  We  might  have  travelled 
together,  by  Jove !     What  was  the  gentleman  like  ?  " 

"  Very  tall." 

"  Taller  than  I  am,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes— easy." 

"A  fair  beard?" 

"  To  be  sure.     You  know  him,  then?  ** 

"  Very  well  indeed.  We  ought  to  have  travelled  to- 
gether.    Has  the  trap  that  took  him  come  back  yet  ?  " 

207 


At  Large 


"  Not  it.     It  hasn't  had  time." 

"  It  must  go  back  with  me  when  it  does.  Don't  look 
like  that,  woman ;  here's  a  sovereign  for  the  job !  " 

He  flung  the  coin  on  the  table.  The  woman  stared 
at  him  and  at  it^  seemed  doubtful  whether  to  take  or 
leave  the  sovereign,  but  eventually  overcame  her 
scruples,  honestly  determining  to  throw  in  a  good 
square  meal  for  the  money. 

"  The  trap  won't  be  back  yet  a  bit,  sir.  You'll  be 
wanting " 

"  Nothing,  except  to  be  left  alone,"  broke  in  the 
strange  guest.  "  That's  all  the  trouble  I  shall  put  you 
to — that,  and  to  tell  me  when  the  trap's  ready." 

There  was  no  use  in  saying  more  to  the  gentleman. 
He  might  not  be  quite  right — he  might  fly  at  a  body. 
The  good  woman  left  him  gazing  abstractedly  out  of 
the  window ;  yet  she  had  scarcely  closed  the  door  when 
she  heard  him  clattering  to  and  fro  over  the  tiled  floor 
like  a  caged  beast. 

His  thoughts  were  in  a  tumult.  He  calmed  them 
by  a  strenuous  effort.  He  strove  to  look  the  matter 
in  the  face.     What  was  the  matter? 

Ned  Ryan,  the  Australian  outlaw,  who  had  been 
screened  on  condition  that  he  came  near  the  Bristos 
no  more,  had  broken  that  condition;  had  somehow 
heard  that  Edmonstone  was  not  to  be  one  of  the  shoot- 
ing-party in  Yorkshire,  and  was  even  now  the  Col- 
onel's newly-arrived  guest. 

After  all,  perhaps  this  was  no  more  than  Dick  had 
been  prepared  for,  since  his  journey  from  Teddington 
to  Waterloo  in  the  same  compartment  with  Jem  Pound 
and  Elizabeth  Ryan ;  he  had  listened  to  a  villain's  sus- 

208 


Conterminous   Courses 

picions  of  a  brother  villain ;  from  that  moment  he  had 
shared  those  suspicions.  Dick  realised  then,  and  only 
then,  that  while  he  was  not  near  the  Bristos  they  were 
not  safe  from  the  advances  of  "  Mr.  Miles,"  if  he  was 
bold  enough  to  make  them.  But  the  sudden  realisa- 
tion of  his  fears  took  Dick's  breath  away ;  he  had  not 
bargained  to  find  Miles  already  at  Gateby — he  had  no 
definite  plan  for  the  defeat  of  Miles,  and  he  was  cer- 
tain that  the  man  described  to  him  by  the  mistress  of 
the  inn  was  Miles — as  certain  as  if  he  had  seen  him 
himself. 

Then  how  was  he  to  act  ?  Was  he  to  show  no  quar- 
ter, since  this  villain  had  played  false?  That  course 
presented  difficulties — dangers  as  well ;  and  at  the  least 
it  involved  a  violent  scene  under  Colonel  Bristo's  roof. 
Must  he,  then,  parley  a  second  time  with  the  villain 
— let  him  ofif  again,  trust  him  again,  go  on  shielding  a 
known  desperado?  No.  Ned  Ryan  could  be  trusted 
no  furtherj  shielded  no  more.  There  were  more 
things  than  one  to  be  considered — more  people  than 
one.     The  man  must  receive  his  deserts. 

And  to  accomplish  this — to  deliver  to  justice  a  crim- 
inal of  the  first  water — this  young  Edmon  stone  went 
blindly  forward,  with  thoughts  of  doing  it  without  fuss 
and  all  but  single-handed. 

There  was  little  daylight  left  when  Dick  was  driven 
out  of  Inglesby;  night  fell  long  before  he  saw  the 
lights  of  Gateby ;  it  was  fully  nine  when  they  reached 
the  little  square  stone  house  behind  the  hedge.  The 
dogs  in  the  kennel  not  far  from  the  house  barked  an 
alarm.  The  front  door  opened,  and  Dick  saw  a  well- 
known  figure  outlined  against  the  light  of  the  passage. 

209 


At  Large 


It  was  the  Colonel  himself,  and  his  greeting  was  most 
cordial.  Yet  how  hard  it  was  to  put  any  heart  into 
the  answer!  Dick  tried,  failed  miserably,  and  knew 
it.  Before  there  was  time  for  many  sentences,  Dick 
found  himself  hustled  into  a  room — a  long,  faded,  un- 
lovely room — in  which  sat  two  ladies.  Miss  Bristo  and 
Mrs,  Parish. 

The  meeting  between  Alice  and  Dick — who  had  not 
seen  each  other  since  that  fateful  second  evening  of 
July — was  perfectly  careless  without  being  conspicu- 
ously cold.  It  may  be  assumed  that  neither  was 
wholly  free  from  some  sort  of  agitation;  but  it  is  to 
be  suspected  that  each  had  prepared  for  the  same,  and 
masked  accordingly.  The  mummery  on  both  sides 
was  excellently  well  managed. 

Observations  the  most  natural  in  the  world,  as  well 
as  the  most  commonplace,  were  the  order  of  the 
minute. 

"  How  rude,"  said  Alice,  "  you  must  have  thought 
us  not  to  send  to  meet  you !  But  we  have  actually  only 
one  pony,  and  he  had  gone  to  Melmerbridge,  which  is 
in  the  opposite  direction." 

"  We  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Parish,  "  that  as  you  had 
not  telegraphed,  and  did  not  come  by  the  usual  train, 
you  could  not  be  coming  to-night." 

"  Pray  don't  name  it,"  Dick  answered  to  the  one 
lady ;  and  to  the  other :  "  I  really  must  apologise  for 
forgetting  to  wire." 

The  window  was  wide  open,  for  the  night  was 
warm:  and  through  the  window  came  the  voices  of 
men  chatting,  and  the  faint  scent  of  cigars.  Among 
the  voices  Dick  immediately  distinguished  one  that  he 

210 


Conterminous  Courses 

was  prepared  for,  and  listened  for — the  soft,  deep 
voice  of  Miles.  Strangely  enough,  he  only  caught  the 
well-known  tones  on  the  moment  of  entering  the 
room ;  speaking  himself,  and  being  spoken  to  by  those 
in  the  room,  he  could  hear  no  more  than  a  hum  out- 
side ;  and  when  he  listened  again,  during  the  first 
pause,  he  could  no  longer  hear  Miles. 

Very  soon  the  conversation  outside  ceased  alto- 
gether, and  a  moment  later  the  men  appeared  in  the 
room.  There  were  but  two  of  them,  and  Miles  was 
not  one.  As  for  Mr.  Oliver  and  Captain  Awdry,  they 
had  only  come  for  the  first  three  days,  and  had  both 
gone  on  the  Saturday  evening. 

Dick  remembered  one  of  the  two  men;  a  heavy- 
jawed,  squarely-built  young  man,  whose  eyes  were  of 
pale  green,  whose  chin  never  by  any  chance  appeared 
to  have  been  shaved  since  the  day  before  yesterday, 
whose  expression  in  repose  was  too  demure  for  a  man. 
This  was  Philip  Robson,  and  Dick  shook  hands  with 
him.  The  dapper  little  dark  man  Dick  had  never  seen 
before.  Whoever  he  was,  he  seemed  to  know  Alice 
pretty  well,  by  the  way  he  promptly  pestered  her  for  a 
song. 

"  So  you  have  only  recently  returned  from  Aus- 
tralia, I  understand,"  Robson  said  to  Dick.  "  I,  too, 
am  fresh  from  those  parts.  And  I  am  told  you  came 
by  sailing-ship — so  did  I — as  surgeon." 

The  dapper  young  gentleman  at  the  other  side  of  the 
room  here  made  an  inane  remark  in  a  loud  tone  about 
both  being  in  the  same  boat,  which  was  ignored  by 
the  worthy  doctor  and  Dick,  who  stared.  If  they  were 
listening  they  must  have  heard  this  wag  informing 

211 


At  Large 


Miss  Bristo  that  she  ought  to  laugh,  and  vowing  that 
he  would  throw  away  no  more  good  things  in  mere 
perishable  words  of  mouth. 

"  No,"  said  Alice^  "  write  them.  It  is  far  the  best. 
The  point  is  so  much  more  easily  seen  in  print;  and 
then,  instead  of  pearls  wasted  on  us  poor  things,  the 
whole  world  roars  at  them." 

"  Sixty  thousand  people  have  the  chance,"  Laurence 
Pinckney  answered — in  allusion,  it  was  believed,  to 
the  circulation  of  "  his  "  weekly  paper. 

But  he  seemed  to  have  nothing  smart  ready  just 
then,  for  he  went  back  to  begging  for  a  song. 

"  Mr.  Miles  was  somewhat  tired,  I  presume.  Dr. 
Robson  ?  "  Mrs.  Parish  was  saying.  "  You  see  he  had 
a  great  rush  to  come  to-day.  We  only  knew  this 
morning,  when  we  got  his  telegram — so  thoughtful  of 
him  to  send  one! — that  he  had  found  it  possible  to 
come  at  all." 

"  Yes.  He  appeared  to  me  to  be  considerably 
fatigued — indeed,  when  he  left  us  I  thought  him  look- 
ing pale.  I  offered  to  mix  him  a  little  something  that 
would  fit  him  for  to-morrow.  But  he  wouldn't  let 
me. 

Cousin  Philip  became  professional  on  the  slightest 
provocation. 

Dick  was  asking  the  Colonel  about  the  sport  so  far. 

"  Forty-eight  brace  the  first  day,  forty-two  the  sec- 
ond ;  five  guns ;  over  dogs.  But,"  added  the  Colonel, 
whispering,  "  my  young  friend  over  there  hits  nothing 
at  all.  Philip  is  fair;  but  as  for  me,  I  don't  see  as  I 
used  to.  Awdry  was  the  crack  shot.  But  you  and 
Miles  will  be  a  better  pair  than  Awdry  and  Oliver." 

212 


Conterminous   Courses 

Dick  and  Miles — coupled!  That  silenced  Dick. 
He  felt  his  very  skin  bristle  at  the  thoughts  that  poured 
in  upon  his  mind. 

"  Do  you  know  Mr.  Miles?  " 

The  question  was  put  in  a  solemn  undertone  by 
Cousin  Philip.  Considering  Dick's  thoughts  at  that 
moment,  it  was  almost  a  startling  question.  He  wait- 
ed a  moment  before  replying. 

"  Yes,"  he  then  said  slowly,  "  I  know  him." 

"  An  interesting  man,"  said  the  doctor,  "  a  pro- 
foundly interesting  man;  that  I  can  see,  and  I 
congratulate  myself  on  making  his  acquaintance. 
I  shall  enjoy  his  society,  I  know.  And  a  Colonial, 
too." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  Colonials  are  as  good  as  any  other 
people." 

Dick  had  often  to  tell  people  that;  but  the  words 
were  scarcely  spoken  before  it  struck  him  that,  in  this 
connection,  they  were  a  little  incongruous. 

"  They  may  be ;  they  may  be.  But  when  I  travelled 
for  an  insurance  company  in  New  Zealand,  I  know  I 
didn't  think  so.  We  went  round  the  stations — the 
agent  and  I — insuring  people,  you  know." 

Dick  did  know.  He  had  himself  met  with  many 
such  professional  Samaritans  in  Riverina.  They  were 
not  popular  there. 

"  Well,"  continued  the  young  djoctor,  "  I  don't  think 
we  were  always  well  treated.  In  some  places  they 
actually  seemed  to  regard  us  with  suspicion.  We 
didn't  meet  with  the  least  respect,  I  can  assure  you. 
Once  or  twice  we  were  downright  insulted.     Now  in 

England " 

213 


At  Large 


"  Let  us  listen  to  this  song,"  said  Dick.  Robson 
was  really  too  ponderous. 

Alice  had  at  last  yielded  to  the  importunities  of 
Laurence  Pinckney,  and  was  singing  something  in 
French.  That  young  gentleman  turned  over  the 
leaves,  but  he  did  not  look  entirely  appreciative. 
When  the  song  was  over,  he  complained  of  the  French 
words.  He  wanted  something  in  English ;  though  he 
could  not  refrain  from  a  trenchant  and  sweeping  criti- 
cism of  all  the  words  of  all  the  ballads  and  songs 
foisted  on  the  musical  world  during  this  last  decade 
of  a  degenerate  age. 

There  was  no  more  singing,  however ;  and  presently 
the  small  party  broke  up. 

"  Early  hours  for  the  moors/'  the  Colonel  said. 
"Philip,  will  you  show  Dick  his  room?  I'm  sorry 
we've  had  to  put  you  outside,  Dick ;  but  there  are  more 
of  us  out  than  in,  and  there's  really  no  choice.  We 
all  rough  it  when  we  go  a-shooting." 

Dick  laughed.,  and  mentioned  that  the  last  few  years 
had  not  made  him  luxurious.  The  Colonel  was  on  the 
stairs,  candle  in  hand.  Dick  would  have  liked  to 
speak  to  him  then  and  there,  and  tell  him  everything 
— but  Robson  was  there  too :  an  inquisitive  fellow,  un- 
less Dick's  memory  was  at  fault;  a  man  who  would 
prick  up  his  ears  if  he  heard  a  private  interview  asked 
for  in  his  presence.     So  Dick  merely  said : 

"  I  must  be  up  early  and  look  round.  Shall  I  see 
you,  sir,  then  ?  " 

"  See  me?  Why,  you'll  find  I've  been  about  for  a 
good  hour  before  you  dream  of  awaking!  Take  it 
easy,  boy ;  you've  been  travelling  all  day.     I'm  differ- 

214 


Conterminous  Courses 

ent.  I  never  slept  longer  than  six  hours  in  my  life. 
Good-night,  Dick ;  good-night,  Philip ;  "  and  Colonel 
Bristo  went  off  to  bed. 

Edmonstone  followed  Robson  out  into  the  dark, 
comforting  himself  with  the  determination  to  tell  Col- 
onel Bristo  everything  before  breakfast  next  morning. 
They  walked  for  some  moments,  then  stopped  before 
a  door  that  opened  upon  a  flight  of  deal  stairs.  A 
candle  and  matches  were  on  the  bottom  step.  The 
good  doctor  discharged  his  duty  to  the  full  by  lighting 
the  candle  and  handing  it  to  Dick. 

"  It  is  the  room  on  the  left,"  said  Robson. 

"  Anyone  in  the  room  on  the  right  ?  " 

"  No,  I  think  not — I'm  sure  not.  You  are  over  the 
stable  and  that ;  Pinckney  and  I  are  a  few  yards  away, 
over  the  laundry.     Good-night." 

"  Good-night,  Robson.     I  say,  Robson !  " 

"Well?" 

"Who  is  Pinckney?" 

"  Son  of  a  brother  officer  of  the  Colonel's.  Comes 
from  town,  I  fancy." 

"  What  does  he  do — besides  making  an  ass  of  him- 
self?" 

"  He  writes,  I  think." 

"  I'm  not  surprised ;  he's  got  cheek  enough  for  any- 
thing!    Good-night,  Robson." 


215 


XX 

STRANGE    HUMILITY 

Dick  found  his  room  plainly  and  scantily  furnished 
but  delightfully  fresh,  clean,  and  comfortable.  There 
was  but  one  narrow  strip  of  carpet  by  the  bedside,  but 
the  boards  were  as  snowy  as  an  admiral's  poop;  the 
narrow  bed  stood  out  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  to 
the  left  as  you  came  in  at  the  door.  The  ceiling,  and 
the  walls,  and  the  blind,  and  the  bed,  and  the  tall  new 
candles,  and  the  dressing-table  on  which  they  stood, 
were  all  very  white  indeed.  At  the  foot  of  the  bed 
Dick  found  his  portmanteau  and  gun-case,  and  the  first 
thing  he  did  was  to  put  together  his  gun,  and  stand  it 
in  one  corner  of  the  room,  ready  for  next  day.  He 
happened  to  stand  it  in  the  corner  nearest  the  bed  head, 
and  farthest  from  the  door;  but  there  was  no  design 
in  that :  the  whole  action  was  mechanical. 

He  undressed  slowly,  or  rather  he  was  long  in  be- 
ginning. He  stood,  resting  his  elbows  on  the  chest 
of  drawers,  and  his  chin  in  his  palms,  and  watched  the 
candle  burn  half-way  down  before  he  so  much  as 
wound  his  watch.  It  was  only  the  wick's  last  throes 
that  reminded  him  to  put  an  end  to  its  flickering  and 
get  into  bed.  But  by  that  time  Dick's  mind  was  made 
up.  When  he  lay  down  to  sleep  he  knew  precisely 
what  he  was  going  to  do  first  thing  in  the  morning, 

2l6 


Strange  Humility 


and  more  or  less  what  he  meant  to  say.     He  fell  quick- 
ly into  a  dreamless  slumber. 

After  sleeping  like  an  infant  for  two  or  three  hours 
he  experienced  something  very  like  a  dream,  and  that 
about  the  very  man  of  whom  he  would  certainly  have 
dreamt  sooner  or  later.  But  this  was  no  dream. 
Dick  was  awakened :  he  lay  still  for  a  moment,  peering 
through  the  darkness,  and  listening  with  all  his  ears. 
Then  he  started  up  in  his  bed,  and  called  sternly : 

"  Who  is  there  ?    Who  are  you  ?  " 

At  the  foot  of  the  bed  a  tall  figure  loomed  through 
the  darkness.  The  challenge  was  answered :  first  with 
a  short,  soft  laugh,  then  in  the  mildest  tones  of  the 
man  who  had  passed  himself  off  as  Miles  the  squatter. 

"  Hush !     I  have  come  to  explain." 

"  Oh,  it  is  you !  "  though  Dick  had  known  who  it 
was  from  the  moment  the  light,  stealthy  step  disturbed 
him. 

"  Yes ;  it  isn't  a  burglar,  so  lie  down  again.  I  tell 
you  I  come  with  a  frank  explanation.  I  suppose  you 
will  listen  to  a  man  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  ?  You  have  broken  faith  with 
me!" 

"  It  amounts  to  that,  I  own.  It  must  seem  to  you 
that  I  deserve  no  further  consideration  at  your  hands. 
Very  well ;  all  I  ask  is  a  hearing." 

The  tones  were  so  unlike  anything  that  could  have 
been  expected  from  the  lips  of  this  man  that  Edmon- 
stone  was  taken  aback ;  they  were  so  low  as  to  be 
scarcely  audible ;  they  were  humble,  and  they  were  sad. 
It  was  this  very  humility  that  at  first  excited  Dick's 
suspicion.  ' 

21/ 


At  Large 


"  I  will  listen  to  you  now,"  said  he,  after  a  moment's 
thought,  "  but  it  is  the  last  thing  I  shall  do  for  you. 
You  might  first  strike  a  light.  There  are  matches  on 
the  dressing-table  behind  you,  and  two  candles,  I 
think." 

Miles  complied  unsuspectingly  with  this  reasonable 
request.  He  was  some  time^  however,  in  finding  the 
matches.  Yet  he  heard  no  sound  (Dick's  arm  was  so 
long,  so  lithe  his  movement)  until  the  candles  were 
alight ;  when  two  loud  clicks  caused  him  to  wheel  sud- 
denly round,  throwing  one  candlestick  with  a  crash  to 
the  floor. 

Dick  was  sitting  up  quietly  in  his  bed,  as  he  had 
been  sitting  a  moment  before ;  but  in  his  hands  was  a 
double-barrelled  gun — cocked — the  butt  not  six  inches 
from  his  shoulder,  the  muzzle  not  three  feet  from 
Miles's  breast.  It  could  be  brought  to  the  shoulder 
in  a  small  fraction  of  a  second.  It  could  be  fired  with 
sufficient  deadliness  without  being  brought  to  the 
shoulder  at  all.  A  finger  was  upon  each  of  the  trig- 
gers. The  light  of  the  single  candle  glittered  upon 
the  barrels. 

"  Now,  my  friend,"  said  Dick,  "  I  am  ready  to  listen 
to  you  as  long  as  you  like." 

Miles  stared  fixedly  at  the  hammers  of  the  gun.  He 
did  not  speak,  he  did  not  draw  back.  He  stood  there, 
in  his  shirt  and  trousers,  motionless  and  silent.  This 
was  not,  as  we  know,  his  first  interview  under  arms, 
but  it  was  the  first  in  which  the  arms  had  been  in  the 
hands  of  the  other  side ;  moreover,  he  had  once  pressed 
a  pistol  to  the  head  of  this  Edmonstone  whose  gun 
covered  him  now.     The  reversal  of  things  was  com- 

2i8. 


Strange  Humility 


plete — the  tables  were  turned  to  the  last  inch.  The 
strange  part  of  it  was  that  the  outwitted  bushranger's 
face  showed  no  trace  of  cunning  baffled,  or  the  fury 
of  an  animal  at  bay,  which  might  have  been  expected 
of  him.  On  the  contrary,  his  countenance  gradually 
filled  with  quite  another  expression — one  of  reproach. 

"  I  am  not  a  fool,"  he  said^  speaking  at  last.  "  I 
was  never  yet  fool  enough  to  tackle  a  forlorn  hope. 
Therefore,  even  if  I  had  come  into  this  room  armed 
to  the  teeth  to  offer  you  violence,  I  should  not  dream 
of  competing  against  those  double-barrels.  But  as  I 
came  empty-handed,  and  in  peace,  I,  for  my  part,  can 
say  all  I  have  to  say  comfortably  into  their  muzzles — 
they  can  make  no  difference  to  me,  unless  you  press 
too  hard  on  those  triggers  in  your  anxiety ;  and  if  you 
did,  perhaps  it  would  be  the  best  turn  you  or  any  man 
could  do  me !  At  the  same  time  you  are  treating  me 
like  a  dog.  The  only  words  that  have  left  my  lips 
were  as  submissive  as  any  victor  need  want ;  I  turned 
my  back  on  you  without  the  smallest  suspicion,  yet 
turn  round  again  to  find  you  pointing  a  gun  at  me !  " 

"  You  call  that  bad  treatment ! "  Edmonstone 
sneered.  "  You  forget,  perhaps,  that  you  have  no  bus- 
iness to  be  loose  in  the  world ;  you  forget  that  I  found 
you  out  and  shielded  you,  wrongly  enough,  on  cer- 
tain terms,  which  you  have  broken !  Well,  I  am  re- 
minding you ;  but  I  am  not  likely  to  give  you  a  second 
chance  of  playing  me  false.  That  is  why  I  keep  the 
sight  of  my  gun  in  a  line  with  your  stud — so;  that  is 
why,  if  you  come  a  step  nearer,  I  won't  answer  for 
consequences." 

"  Considering,"  said  Miles,  "  how  I  treated  you  a 
219 


At  Large 


few  years  ago,  and  what  you  owe  to  that  treatment, 
I  should  have  thought  you  might  behave  rather  differ- 
ently to-night;  you  might  have  shown  a  little  gener- 
osity, outlaw  as  I  am." 

"  You  remind  me,"  said  Dick,  "  that  in  '82,  in  the 
scrub  near  Balranald,  you  stuck  up  me  and  my  mate, 
and  took  almost  everything  we  had — except  our 
money,  I  didn't  require  to  be  reminded  of  that  for- 
bearance of  yours.  I  haven't  forgotten  it,  and  I  know 
pretty  well  its  worth  by  now,  though  hitherto  I  have 
overvalued  it.  But  that  old  account — supposing  it  to 
be  one,  for  argument's  sake — was  squared  last  month ; 
you  have  been  fool  enough  to  open  a  new  one." 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  said  Miles,  bitterly,  "  that  I  didn't 
let  Jem  Pound  knife  you !  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  through  saving  me  then  you 
found  one  man  in  England  actually  ready  to  screen 
you  from  justice.  If  you  had  not  broken  faith  with 
him  that  man  would  screen  you  still;  but  as  it  is — 
Steady !  don't  move !     I  am  pressing  the  trigger." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  are  going  to  betray  me  after 
all  ?  "  cried  Miles,  in  a  quick  gasp  of  dismay,  yet  draw- 
ing back — he  had  taken  a  step  forward  in  his  agita- 
tion. 

"  What  else  would  you  have  me  do  ?  Give  you  an- 
other chance  ?  Honestly,"  cried  Dick,  with  honesty  in 
his  tone,  "  I  wish  that  I  could !  But  can  you  expect 
it?" 

"  Listen  to  me !  "  cried  Miles,  in  a  deep  faltering 
voice.     "  Listen  to  me !  " 

"  I  am  listening." 

"  The  other  day,  then — I  mean  the  night  you  found 
220 


Strange  Humility 


me  out,  you  and  those  blood-suckers — I  was  on  the 
brink  of  a  new  life!  You  smile — but  before  Heaven 
it  is  the  truth !  I  had  lived  for  weeks  as  I  never  lived 
before — among  good  people.  Bad  as  I  was,  they  in- 
fluenced me,  at  first  without  my  knowing  it.  It  was  a 
new  side  of  life  to  me.  I  found  it  was  the  best  side. 
I  grew — well,  call  it  happy.  Then  I  looked  back  and 
loathed  the  old  days.  I  began  to  map  out  a  better  life 
for  myself.  I  was  a  new  man,  starting  afresh.  I 
thanked  God  for  my  escape,  for  it  seemed  like  His 
act." 

"  H  the  fellow  isn't  in  earnest,"  thought  Dick,  "  this 
is  the  worst  blasphemy  I  ever  heard.  I  half  think  he 
means  what  he  says,  poor  wretch." 

"  It  was  you  that  blotted  out  that  new  existence — 
just  as  it  opened  out  before  me!  It  was  you  that 
drove  me  from  my  haven !  It  was  you  that  turned  me 
adrift  in  a  city  full  of  foes !  So  much  for  your  side 
of  the  balance  between  us !  " 

Dick  was  half-carried  away  by  the  man's  rough  elo- 
quence, and  the  note  of  pathos  in  his  deep  tones.  But 
he  was  only  half-carried  away ;  he  was  a  man  hard  to 
shift  when  his  stand  was  once  taken.  His  answer  was 
shrewd : 

"  That  city  is  the  safest  place  in  the  world  for  such 
as  you — safer  even  than  the  bush.  As  to  your  friends, 
did  you  expect  to  live  on  them  forever  ?  " 

The  other's  vehemence  was  checked. 

"  Perhaps  you  intended  to  become  one  of  the 
family !  "  said  Edmonstone  scornfully,  pursuing  his 
advantage. 

Miles  pulled  himself  together,  and  dismissed  this 
221 


At  Large 

keen  question  with  a  smile  and  a  wave  of  the  hand ; 
but  the  smile  faded  quickly ;  nor  had  it  been  anything 
better  than  a  ghastly  mockery. 

"  You  do  not  appreciate  my  position,"  said  Miles 
presently,  fetching  a  deep  sigh ; "  you  cannot  put  your- 
self in  my  place.  No  honest  man  could,  I  suppose! 
And  you  shut  me  off  from  all  decent  living ;  you  made 
me  bid  good-bye  to  the  people  who  had  befriended 
me,  and  somehow — ^well,  made  me  wish  I  was  a  little 
less  the  ruffian !  I  became  an  outcast !  I  tried  to  make 
new  friends,  but  failed.  I  had  lost  my  nerve  somehow 
— that  was  the  worst  of  it !  I  resolved  to  throw  it  up, 
and  quit  England.  I  took  my  passage  for  New  York, 
and—" 

"  Do  you  mean  what  you  say  ?  Have  you  actually 
done  that  ?  " 

"  Yes.  The  ticket  is  in  my  room,  which  is  opposite 
this  room."  He  pointed  to  the  door.  "  I  can  bring 
it  to  show  you." 

"  No ;  stay  where  you  are ;  I  believe  you.  When  do 
you  sail  ?  " 

"  In  a  week — next  Tuesday." 

Dick  breathed  more  freely.  Here  was  an  extenuat- 
ing circumstance  of  the  broken  compact.  On  the 
whole,  Dick  was  glad  to  find  one. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Dick,  in  a  slightly  less  hostile  tone : 
"  tell  me  the  rest,  and  what  it  was  that  induced  you 
to  come  up  here." 

"  Surely  you  can  see  the  rest  for  yourself?  Surely 
you  can  put  yourself  in  my  place  at  this  point  ?  I  own 
that  hearing  you  were  not  to  be  of  the  party  finally 
induced  me  to  come — I  thought  you  would  not  hear 

222 


Strange  Humility 


of  it  till  afterwards;  but  I  came  to  bid  my  friends 
good-bye !  to  get  one  more  glimpse  of  a  kind  of  life 
I  had  never  seen  before  and  shall  never  see  again !  for 
one  more  week  in  a  pure  atmosphere." 

"  Oh !  not  to  make  up  to  Miss  Bristo,  then?  " 

Blunt  though  the  words  were,  each  one  was  a  self- 
inflicted  stab  to  the  heart  of  the  man  that  spoke  them. 

"  No !  "  cried  Miles,  and  his  voice  was  turned  sud- 
denly hoarse ;  "  no,  before  Heaven !  " 

"  If  I  believed  it  was  that,  I  think  I  should  pull  this 
trigger  on  the  spot." 

"  It  is  not,"  cried  Miles ;  "  I  swear  it  is  not/'  he 
whispered. 

And  Dick  believed  him  then. 

"  Why,  man,"  the  bushranger  went  on,  more 
steadily,  "  you  have  got  me  under  the  whip  here. 
Down  with  the  lash  and  cut  me  to  ribbons  the  first 
time  you  see  me  playing  false.  Keep  your  eye  on  me  ; 
watch  me  all  day ;  I  can  do  nothing  up  here  without 
your  knowledge;  I  cannot  speak  but  you  will  hear 
what  it  is  I  say.  As  to  Miss  Bristo,  I  will  not  go  near 
her — but  this  is  a  small  part  of  the  whole.  In  my 
whole  conduct  you  will  find  me  behave  like — like  a 
changed  man.  Only  let  me  stay  this  week  out.  But 
one  other  thing — a  thing  I  would  go  down  on  my 
knees  to  you  for,  if  that  would  do  any  good:  don't 
open  their  eyes  when  I  am  gone.  There  will  be  no 
need  to ;  they  will  forget  me  as  Miles  the  squatter  if 
you  let  them.  Then  let  them.  They  think  well  of 
me  because  I  saved  the  old  man  from  drowning.  Ed- 
monstone,  you  can  let  me  keep  their  good  opinions  if 
you  will.      God    help  me!  they  are  the  only  good 

223 


At  Large 


opinions  I  ever  honestly  earned,  because  I  got  them 
entirely  through  that  simple,  paltry  affair  at  the  sea- 
side. Do  not  rob  me  of  them,  now  or  afterwards. 
That  is  all  I  ask." 

Dick  was  beginning  to  waver. 

There  was  an  honest  ring  in  Ned  Ryan's  assevera- 
tions ;  and  after  all  it  was  just  possible  that  a  villain, 
who  had  shown  a  soft  side  at  least  once  before,  might 
be  softened  right  through  by  the  gracious  influence 
of  an  English  home.  Then  Sundown,  the  bushranger, 
desperado  though  he  had  been,  had  preserved  hands 
unstained  by  blood  ;  and  Sundown  the  bushranger  had 
saved  him,  Edmonstone,  from  death  and  ruin  in  the 
Australian  wilds,  and  Colonel  Bristo  from  drowning. 
Such  acts  could  not  be  made  light  of  or  forgotten, 
no  matter  who  was  their  author. 

Dick  was  relenting,  and  the  other  saw  it. 

"  Stay !  "  said  Miles,  suddenly.  "  You  have  my 
word  only  so  far.  I  can  show  you  a  better  pledge  of 
good  faith  if  you  will  let  me." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"  In  my  room." 

Edmonstone  nodded.  Miles  left  the  room,  and 
returned  immediately  with  a  paper,  which  he  handed 
to  Edmonstone. 

"  Why,  this  is  a  receipt  of  passage-money  for  two !  " 
said  Edmonstone,  looking  up.  "  You  are  not  going 
out  alone,  then  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Miles.  His  voice  was  low.  His  back 
was  to  the  window,  through  which  grey  dawn  was 
now  stealing.  It  was  impossible  to  see  the  expression 
on  his  face — its  outline  was  all  that  was  visible. 

224 


Strange  Humility 


"  Who  IS  going  with  you  ?  " 

"  My  wife !  "  whispered  Miles. 

Dick  was  taken  aback,  glad,  incredulous. 

"  Your  wife !  "  he  said.  "  Then  you  admit  that  she 
is  your  wife  ?    When  did  you  see  her  ?  " 

"  Yesterday." 

"  But  not  until  then !  "  Dick  meant  to  put  a  ques- 
tion ;  he  did  not  succeed  in  his  excitement — his  tone 
was  affirmative. 

"  No,  not  until  then,"  said  Miles  quietly ;  "  because, 
though  I  have  been  watching  her  as  closely  as  I  dared, 
it  was  the  first  chance  I  got  of  seeing  her  without  see- 
ing Pound.  He  thinks  she  has  not  seen  me  since  the 
night  in  Bushey  Park.  She  must  not  escape  him  until 
the  very  day  of  joining  me  on  board  the  steamer.  If 
she  did,  he  would  find  her  sooner  or  later ;  and  then 
he  would  find  me,  which  is  all  he  is  living  for.  That 
man  would  murder  me  if  he  got  the  chance.  Do  you 
understand  now  ?  " 

Dick  made  no  reply,  but  it  all  seemed  clear  and 
intelligible  to  him ;  Pound's  hold  upon  Mrs.  Ryan, 
and  the  false  position  in  which  that  fiend  placed  the 
woman  at  the  meeting  of  husband  and  wife,  which 
accounted  for  Ryan's  misunderstanding  and  heartless 
treatment  of  his  wife  on  that  occasion ;  the  recon- 
ciliation of  husband  and  wife ;  their  projected  de- 
parture for  America  ;  the  necessity  of  deceiving  Pound 
meanwhile,  and  getting  away  without  his  knowledge. 
All  these  things  seemed  natural  enough ;  and,  told 
in  the  desperately  earnest  tones  of  a  strong  man 
humbled,  they  carried  conviction  with  them.  Nor 
were  they  pleaded  in  vain. 

225 


At  Large 


The  way  in  which  Dick  finally  put  the  matter  was 
this  :— 

"  Remember,"  he  said,  "  that  it  is  for  my  friends' 
sake  as  much  as  for  yours ;  that  this  is  our  second 
treaty ;  and  that  if  you  break  one  particle  of  it  there 
are  always  four  men  in  the  house  here,  and  villagers 
in  plenty  within  a  cooee  of  us." 

"  I  know  all  these  things,"  said  Miles,  very  humbly, 
"  and  will  forget  none  of  them." 

And  so  the  interview  ended. 

When  Miles  was  gone,  Dick  lifted  his  gun,  which 
had  lain  long  upon  the  counterpane,  pressed  the  lever, 
bent  down  the  barrels,  and  aimed  them  at  the  glim- 
mering window-blind.  The  early  morning  light  shone 
right  through  the  gleaming  bores — the  gun  had  been 
empty  all  the  time !  Dick  felt  ashamed  of  the  part  that 
it  had  played  in  the  interview. 


226 


XXI 

AN    ALTERED    MAN 

Colonel  Bristo  was  rambling  about  the  place,  ac- 
cording to  habit,  for  a  good  hour  the  next  morning 
before  the  early  breakfast,  but  he  saw  nothing  of  Dick 
until  the  bell  rang  for  that  meal. 

"  I  thought  you  meant  turning  out  early  ?  "  said 
the  old  fellow  to  the  young  one,  with  a  smile.  "  I've 
been  looking  for  you  in  vain ;  but  I'm  glad  you  fol- 
lowed my  advice  and  took  it  easy.  Did  you  sleep  well, 
though?  That's  the  main  thing;  and  'pon  my  soul, 
you  look  as  though  you  had  been  awake  all  night !  " 

"  Oh,  I  was  all  right,  thanks,  sir ;  I  slept  pretty 
well,"  said  Dick,  with  awkward  haste. 

The  Colonel  felt  pretty  sure  that  Dick  had  been  all 
wrong,  and  slept  not  at  all.  There  was  a  haggard 
look  about  him  that  put  the  fact  beyond  the  contra- 
diction of  words. 

"  You  didn't  see  Miles,  I  suppose  ? "  said  the 
Colonel  after  a  moment's  thought.  "  His  room  is 
close  to  yours,  you  know." 

"  I  did  see  him.  We  —  we  exchanged  a  few 
words." 

Dick's  tone  and  manner  were  strange. 

"  Confound  them  both ! "  thought  the  Colonel. 
"  They  have  clashed  already.  Yes,  that  is  it.  I  won- 
der how  it  came  about  ?    I  didn't  think  they  were  such 

227 


At  Large 


implacable  foes.  Mrs.  Parish  hinted  to  me  long  ago 
that  they  were,  and  that  it  would  be  best  not  to  have 
them  here  together.  Is  it  all  on  Alice's  account,  I 
wonder?  Anyway,  it  is  by  no  scheme  of  mine  that 
they  are  here  together.  Why,  I  wrote  Miles  a  list  of 
our  little  party  without  a  word  about  Dick.  I  never 
thought  Dick  was  coming.  Yet  I  am  glad  now  he  is 
come." 

"  It  was  really  kind  of  you,"  said  Colonel  Bristo 
aloud,  "  to  give  in  and  come  after  all." 

"  No,"  said  Dick,  with  sudden  fire.  "  I'm  thankful 
I  came !  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  refusing  to  take  my 
first  refusal.  Now  that  I  am  here,  I  would  not  be  else- 
where at  this  moment  for  the  whole  world !  " 

The  Colonel  was  pleased,  if  a  little  puzzled,  by  this 
vehement  outburst. 

"  Are  you  really  going  out  again — back  to  the 
bush  ?  "  he  said  presently. 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick,  the  fire  within  him  quickly 
quenched.  "  I  have  quite  settled  that  point — though 
I  have  told  no  one  but  you.  Colonel  Bristo." 

"  Well,  well — I  think  you  are  making  a  sad  mistake  ; 
but  of  course  every  man  decides  for  himself." 

That  was  all  Colonel  Bristo  said  just  then,  for  he 
knew  that  the  young  people  had  barely  seen  one  an- 
other as  yet.  But  up  on  the  moor,  an  hour  or  two 
later,  when  the  guns  divided,  he  felt  inclined  to  say 
something  sharp,  for  the  manner  in  which  Dick 
avoided  shooting  with  Miles  was  rather  too  pointed, 
and  a  good  deal  too  ridiculous  and  childish  for  the 
Colonel's  fancy. 

That  evening  the  conversation  at  the  Colonel's  din- 
228 


An  Altered  Man 

ner,  and  that  around  the  beer-stained  board — dedi- 
cated of  an  evening  to  the  engrossing  domino — in  the 
inn  at  Gateby,  were  principally  upon  the  selfsame 
topic — to  wit,  the  excellence  of  Miles's  shooting. 

"  I  can't  conceive,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  seeing  that 
you  have  never  shot  grouse  in  your  life  before,  how 
you  do  it." 

"  If  I  couldn't  shoot  straight,"  said  the  hero  of  the 
evening  (for  the  bag  that  day  was  the  biggest  yet, 
thanks  to  Miles),  "  I  ought  to  be  shot  myself.  I  was 
reared  on  gunpowder.  In  the  bush — instead  of  the 
silver  spoon  in  your  mouth — you  are  born  with  a  fire- 
arm in  your  hand !" 

Dick  smiled  grimly  to  himself.  And  yet  this  was 
the  longest  speech  the  Australian  had  made  all  the 
evening.  Miles  was  strangely  subdued,  compared 
with  what  he  had  been  at  Graysbrooke.  The  Colonel 
and  his  daughter  had  each  noticed  this  already ;  and 
as  for  Mrs.  Parish,  she  was  resolved  to  "  speak  up  " 
on  the  subject  to  Alice,  whom  she  blamed  for  it 
entirely. 

"  Yon  yoong  man — him  't  coomed  las'  night — t' 
long  wan,  I  mean,"  declared  Andy  Garbutt  in  the  pot- 
house, banging  down  his  fourth  glass  (empty)  upon 
the  table,  which  upset  several  dominoes  and  led  to 
"  language  " — "  yon  yoong  man's  t'bes'  shot  I  iver 
seed.  The  way  he  picked  off  t'ould  cocks,  an'  let  be 
t'yoongsters  an'  all,  was  sumthink  clever.  I  niver 
seed  owt  like  it.  They  do  say  'tis  his  first  taast  o' 
t'mowers — but  we  isn't  the  lads  to  swaller  yon !  Bob 
Rutter,  y'  ould  divle — fill  oop  t'  glasses." 

And  though  perhaps,  hyperbole  ran  riot  upon  the 
229 


At  Large 


heels  of  intoxication,  still  in  Robert  Rutter's  genial 
hostelry  "  t'  long  chap's  "  reputation  was  there  and 
then  established. 

But  the  marked  change  in  Miles's  manner  was,  to 
those  who  had  known  him  best  before,  inexplicable. 
Never  had  a  shooting-party  a  more  modest,  mild,  and 
unassuming  member,  even  among  the  worst  of  shots ; 
and  Miles  was,  if  anything,  better  than  Captain  Awdry. 
His  quiet  boastfulness  was  missing.  He  might  have 
passed  the  weeks  since  the  beginning  of  July  in  some 
school  of  manners,  where  the  Colonial  angles  had 
been  effectually  rounded  off,  and  the  old  free-and-easy 
habits  toned  down.  Not  that  he  was  shy  or  awkward 
— Miles  was  not  the  man  to  become  either  the  one  or 
the  other;  but  his  manner  had  now — towards  the 
Colonel,  for  instance,  and  Alice — a  certain  deference- 
with-dignity,  the  lack  of  which  had  been  its  worst  fault 
before.  Dick,  who  scarcely  spoke  three  words  to  him 
in  as  many  days,  suddenly  awoke  to  a  sense  of  relief 
and  security. 

"  Poor  fellow !  "  he  thought,  "  he  is  keeping  his 
word  this  time,  I  must  own.  Well,  I  am  glad  I  didn't 
make  a  scene ;  and  the  week  is  half  over.  When  it  is 
quite  over,  I  shall  be  still  more  glad  that  I  let  him  off. 
For,  after  all,  I  owe  him  my  life.  I  am  sorry  I  threat- 
ened him  during  our  interview,  and  perhaps  I  need 
not  have  avoided  him  so  studiously  since.  Yet  I  am 
watching  him,  and  he  knows  it.  I  watch  him  some- 
times when  he  cannot  possibly  know  it,  and  for  the 
life  of  me  I  can  see  nothing  crooked.  My  belief  is 
that  he's  only  too  thankful  to  get  off  on  the  terms,  and 
that  he  wouldn't  break  them  for  as  much  as  his  life 

230 


An   Altered  Man 

is  worth;  besides  which,  his  remorse  the  other  night 
was  genuine." 

Mrs.  Parish,  for  her  part,  was  quite  sure  that  it  was 
love  unrequited  with  Mr.  Miles,  and  nothing  else. 
She  fumed  secretly  for  two  days,  and  then  "  spoke 
up  "  according  to  her  intention.  What  she  said  was 
not  well  received,  and  a  little  assault-at-words  was  the 
result. 

Dr.  Robson  told  Mr.  Pinckney  that  he  found  Miles 
a  less  interesting  man  to  talk  to  than  he  had  been  led 
to  expect  from  his  conversation  the  first  evening. 
Mr.  Pinckney  replied  that  if  all  the  Australians  were 
as  unsociable,  he  was  glad  he  didn't  live  out  there. 
Though  Miles,  he  said,  might  be  a  fine  sportsman  and 
a  devilish  handsome  dog,  there  was  evidently  "  noth- 
ing in  him ; "  by  which  it  was  meant  that  he  was  not 
intellectual  and  literary — like  L.  P. 

Colonel  Bristo  was  fairly  puzzled,  but,  on  the  whole, 
he  liked  the  new  Miles  rather  less  than  the  old. 

As  for  Alice,  though  she  did  her  best  to  exclude  her 
personal  feelings  from  the  pages  of  her  diary,  she 
could  not  help  just  touching  on  this  matter. 

"  I  never,"  she  wrote,  "  saw  anybody  so  much 
changed  as  Mr.  Miles,  and  in  so  short  a  time.  Though 
he  is  certainly  less  amusing  than  we  used  to  think  him, 
I  can't  help  admitting  that  the  change  is  an  improve- 
ment. His  audacity,  I  remember,  carried  him  a  little 
too  far  once  or  twice  before  he  left  us.  But  he  was  a 
hero  all  the  time,  in  spite  of  his  faults,  and  now  he  is 
one  all  the  more.  Oh,  I  can  never  forget  what  we  owe 
to  him !  To  me  he  is  most  polite,  and  not  in  the  least 
(as  he  sometimes  used  to  be)  familiar,  I  am  thankful  to 

231 


At  Large 


say.  The  more  I  think  of  it  the  less  I  can  account  for 
his  strange  behaviour  that  night  of  our  dance — be- 
cause it  was  so  unHke  what  he  had  been  up  till  then, 
and  what  he  is  now." 

Of  Dick  this  diary  contained  no  mention  save  the 
bald  fact  of  his  arrival.  There  was,  indeed,  a  sentence 
later  on  that  began  with  his  name,  but  the  few  words 
that  followed  his  name  were  scored  out  so  carefully 
as  to  be  illegible.  The  fact  was  that  the  estrangement 
between  the  pair  was  well-nigh  hopeless.  They  con- 
versed together,  when  they  did  converse,  with  mutual 
effort.  Dick  found  himself  longing  to  speak — to  ask 
her  forgiveness  before  he  went — but  without  oppor- 
tunity or  encouragement.  Alice,  on  the  other  hand, 
even  if  ready  to  meet  an  overture  half-way,  was  the 
last  person  in  the  world  to  invite  one.  Under  the  con- 
ditions of  the  first  few  days,  meeting  only  at  breakfast 
and  dinner,  and  for  an  hour  or  so  in  the  drawing-room 
afterwards,  these  two  might  have  been  under  one  roof 
for  weeks  without  understanding  one  another  a  whit 
the  better. 

But  meanwhile,  Alice  seemed  to  benefit  very  little 
by  her  change  from  the  relaxing  Thames  valley  to  the 
bracing  Yorkshire  moors ;  and  as  for  Dick — except 
when  the  Colonel  was  present,  for  whose  sake  he  did 
make  an  effort  to  be  hearty — he  was  poor  company, 
and  desperately  moody.  He  was  also  short-tempered, 
as  Philip  Robson  found  out  one  morning  when  they 
were  tramping  over  the  moor  together.  For  Cousin 
Philip  was  sufficiently  ill-advised  to  inform  his  com- 
panion that  he.  Dr.  Robson,  thought  him  looking  far 
from  well — at  a  moment  when  no  good  sportsman 

232 


An  Altered  Man 

would  have  opened  his  mouth,  unless  in  businesslrke 
reference  to  the  work  in  hand. 

"  I'm  all  right,  thanks,"  Dick  answered  shortly, 
and  with  some  contempt. 

"  Ah !  "  said  Philip,  compassionately,  "  perhaps  you 
are  not  a  very  good  judge  of  your  own  health ;  nor 
can  you  know  how  you  look.  Now,  as  a  medical 
man — " 

"  Spare  me,  my  dear  fellow.  Go  and  look  at  all  the 
tongues  of  the  village,  if  you  must  keep  your  eye  in. 
They'll  be  charmed.  As  for  me,  I  tell  you  I  don't 
want — I  mean,  I'm  all  right." 

"  As  a  medical  man,"  pursued  Philip,  "  I  beg  to 
dif— " 

"  Hang  it !  "  cried  Dick,  now  fairly  irritated.  "  We 
didn't  come  out  for  a  consultation,  did  we?  When 
I  want  your  advice,  Robson,  you'll  hear  from  me." 

With  such  men  as  Robson,  if  they  don't  feel  the  first 
gentle  snub  (and  the  chances  are  all  against  it),  any- 
thing short  of  an  insult  is  waste  of  breath.  Yet,  hav- 
ing driven  you  into  being  downright  offensive,  they  at 
once  turn  sensitive,  and  out  with  their  indignation  as 
though  they  had  said  nothing  to  provoke  you.  Wit- 
ness the  doctor: 

"  I  thought,"  he  cried,  beginning  to  tremble  vio- 
lently, "  I  came  out  with  a  gentleman !  I  meant  what 
I  said  for  your  good — it  was  pure  kindness  on  my 
part,  nothing  else.    I  thought — I  thought — " 

At  that  point  he  was  cut  short ;  for  Edmonstone  had 
lost  his  temper,  turned  on  his  heel  with  a  short,  sharp 
oath,  and  made  Philip  Robson  his  enemy  from  that 
minute. 

233 


XXII 

EXTREMITIES 

That  same  evening  (it  was  on  the  Thursday),  on  his 
return  from  shooting,  Dick  Edmonstone  found, 
among  the  other  letters  on  the  table  in  the  passage, 
one  addressed  to  himself  in  a  strange  hand.  The  writ- 
ing was  bad,  but  characteristic  in  its  way;  Dick  had 
certainly  never  seen  it  before.  The  envelope  bore  a 
London  postmark.  He  took  the  letter  into  the  little 
back  room,  the  gunroom,  and  sat  down  to  read  it 
alone. 

Twilight  was  deep  in  this  room,  for  the  window  was 
in  an  angle  of  the  house,  facing  eastward,  and  was 
overshadowed  by  the  foliage  of  a  fair-sized  oak.  Some 
out-lying  small  branches  of  this  tree  beat  gently 
against  the  upper  pane;  the  lower  sash  was  thrown 
up.  The  window  was  several  feet  above  the  ground. 
The  corner  below  was  a  delightful  spot,  shaded  all  day 
from  the  sun ;  a  basket-work  table  and  chair  were  al- 
ways there,  for  the  nook  was  much  affected  by  Mrs. 
Parish,  and  even  by  Alice,  in  the  hot,  long,  sleepy 
afternoons. 

Edmonstone  had  read  to  the  end  of  his  letter,  when 
the  door  opened  and  Miles  entered  the  room.  Dick 
looked  up  and  greeted  him :  "  This  is  lucky.  I  was 
just  coming  to  look  for  you.    I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

The  other's  astonishment  was  unconcealed.  Since 
234 


Extremities 

the  small  hours  of  Tuesday  the  two  had  not  exchanged 
a  dozen  words.  Edmonstone  had  avoided  Miles  on 
the  moor,  and  elsewhere  watched  him  as  a  terrier 
watches  a  rat  in  a  trap.  Miles  could  not  guess  what 
was  coming. 

"  I  have  a  letter  here  that  will  interest  you,"  said 
Dick.    "  Listen  to  this : 

" '  Dear  Edmonstone, — I  thought  I'd  look  you  up 
yesterday,  as  I  had  nothing  on,  but,  like  my  luck,  I 
found  you  away.  Your  people,  however,  treated  me 
handsomely,  and  I  stayed  all  the  afternoon.  We  talked 
Australia ;  and  this  brings  me  to  the  reason  of  my  writ- 
ing to  you.  Your  people  told  me  of  a  rather  myste- 
rious Australian  who  stayed  some  time  with  the  people 
you  are  with  now,  and  went  out  again  very  suddenly 
at  the  beginning  of  last  month.  His  name  was  Miles ; 
your  sister  described  him  to  me,  and  the  description 
struck  me  as  uncommon  Hke  that  of  a  well-known 
gentleman  at  present  wanted  by  the  police  of  the  Col- 
ony. The  fact  is,  I  have  stumbled  across  an  old  mate 
of  mine  (a  sergeant  in  the  mounted  police),  who  is  over 
here  after  this  very  gent,  and  who  I  am  helping  a  bit 
in  the  ready-money  hne.  As  he  is  working  on  the 
strict  q.t.,  I  must  not  tell  you  whom  he's  after.  In 
fact,  it's  all  on  my  own  account  I  am  writing  you.  I 
haven't  told  him  anything  about  it.  It's  my  own  idea 
entirely,  and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  just  this :  Have  your 
friends  heard  anything  of  this  Miles  since  he  left  them? 
because  I've  been  making  inquiries,  and  found  that  no 
such  name  as  Miles  has  been  booked  for  a  passage  out 
at  any  of  the  London  offices  during  the    past    two 

235 


At  Large 

months!  Of  course  I  may  have  got  hold  of  a  wild- 
goose  notion  ;  but  Miss  Edmonstone  told  me  that  your 
friends  made  this  Miles's  acquaintance  in  an  oflfhand 
kind  of  a  way,  and  nobody  else  knew  anything  about 
him.  Anyway,  I'll  wait  till  I  hear  from  you  before  tell- 
ing Compton,  who's  down  at  the  seaside  on  a  fresh 
clue, — Yours  faithfully.  Stephen  Biggs.'  " 

"  What  name  was  that  ?  '*  asked  Miles  quickly.  He 
had  Hstened  calmly  to  the  end.  But  at  the  very  end 
the  colour  had  suddenly  fled  from  his  face. 

"  Biggs — the  Hon.  Stephen,  M.L.C.  A  warm  man 
for  a  campaign,  rich  as  Croesus.  If  he's  set  his  heart 
upon  having  you,  he'll  chase  you  round  and  round  the 
world " 

"  No.  I  mean  the  other  man — the  name  of  the  ser- 
geant." 

Dick  referred  to  the  letter. 

"  Compton,"  he  said. 

"  Compton !  "  repeated  Miles  in  a  whisper.  "  The 
only  '  trap  '  in  Australia  I  ever  feared — the  only  man 
in  the  world,  bar  Pound,  I  have  still  to  fear !  Compton ! 
my  bitterest  enemy !  " 

Edmonstone  rose  from  the  armchair  in  which  he 
had  been  sitting,  sat  down  at  the  table,  opened  a  blot- 
ter, and  found  a  sheet  of  notepaper. 

"  Must  you  answer  now  ?  "  cried  Miles. 

"  Yes  ;  on  the  spot." 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  say  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  decided.  What  would  you  say  in  my 
place  ?    I  am  a  poor  liar."  ■ 

"  If  we  changed  places,  and  I  had  treated  you  as 
236 


I 


Extremities 

you  have  treated  me  these  two  days — since  our  com- 
pact— I  should  write  them  the  worst,  and  have  done 
with  it,"  said  Miles,  in  a  low  tone  of  intense  bitterness. 
"  You  professed  to  trust  me.  Yet  you  won't  trust 
yourself  near  me  on  the  moors ;  you  fear  foul  play  at 
my  hands.  You  watch  me  like  a  lynx  here  at  the 
house ;  yet  I  swear  man  never  kept  promise  as  I  am 
keeping  mine  now !  You  do  things  by  halves,  Edmon- 
stone.  You  had  better  end  the  farce,  and  wire  the 
truth  to  your  friend." 

Reproach  mingled  with  resignation  in  the  last  quiet 
words.  Edmonstone  experienced  a  twinge  of  com- 
punction. 

"  Nonsense !  "  he  said.  "  I  should  be  a  fool  if  I 
didn't  watch  you — worse  than  a  fool  to  trust  you.  But 
betraying  you  is  another  matter.  I  don't  think  of  do- 
ing that,  unless " 

"  I  can  keep  my  word,  Edmonstone,  bad  as  I  may 
be !    Besides,  I  am  not  a  fool." 

"  And  you  are  going  on  Monday?  " 

"  Yes — to  sail  on  Tuesday ;  you  have  seen  my 
ticket." 

"  Then  you  shall  see  my  answer  to  this  letter." 

Dick  then  dashed  ofif  a  few  lines.  He  handed  the 
sheet,  with  the  ink  still  wet,  to  Miles,  who  read  these 
words : 

"  Dear  Biggs, — A  false  scent,  I  am  afraid.  Ladies 
are  never  accurate ;  you  have  been  misinformed  about 
Miles.  I  knew  him  in  Australia!  He  cannot  be  the 
man  you  want. — Yours  sincerely, 

"  R.  Edmonstone." 


At  Large 


The  sheet  of  writing  paper  fluttered  in  Miles's  hand. 
For  one  moment  an  emotion  of  gratitude  as  fierce  as 
that  which  he  himself  had  once  inspired  in  the  breast 
of  Edmonstone,  swelled  within  his  own. 

"  You  are  a  friend  indeed,"  he  murmured,  handing 
back  the  letter.  "  And  yet  your  friendship  seems  like 
madness !  " 

"  My  old  mate  swears  that  I  am  mad  on  the  sub- 
ject!" 

Dick  folded  and  enclosed  his  note  in  an  envelope, 
directed  it,  and  got  up  to  go.  Miles  followed  him  to 
the  door  and  wrung  his  hand  in  silence. 

When  the  door  was  closed  upon  Edmonstone,  Miles 
sank  into  the  armchair^  and  closed  his  eyes. 

His  expression  was  human  then;  it  quickly  hard- 
ened, and  his  face  underwent  complete  transformation. 
A  moment  later  it  was  not  a  pleasant  face  to  look  upon. 
The  ugliness  of  crime  had  disfigured  it  in  a  flash.  The 
devils  within  him  were  unchained  for  once,  and  his 
looks  were  as  ugly  as  his  thoughts. 

"  Curse  it !  " — he  was  thinking — "  I  must  be  losing 
my  nerve :  I  get  heated  and  flurried  as  I  never  did  be- 
fore. Yet  it  was  not  altogether  put  on,  my  gratitude 
to  this  young  fellow :  I  do  feel  some  of  it.  Nor  were 
they  all  lies  that  I  told  him  the  other  night ;  I  am  al- 
tered in  some  ways.  I  believe  it  was  that  spice  of  truth 
that  saved  me — for  saved  I  am  so  far  as  he  is  con- 
cerned. Anyway,!  have  fooled  him  rather  successfully, 
and  he'll  know  it  before  he  has  done  with  me !  True,  I 
did  not  bargain  to  meet  him  here,  after  what  the 
Colonel  wrote ;  but  I  flatter  myself  I  made  the  best  of 
it — I  can  congratulate  myself  upon  every  step.    No; 

238 


Extremities 

one  was  a  false  step :  I  was  an  idiot  to  show  him  the 
passage-money  receipt;  it  was. telling  him  the  name 
and  line  of  the  steamer  and  opening  up  the  track  for 
pursuit  when  we  are  gone.  And  yet,  and  yet — I  could 
not  have  laid  a  cleverer  false  scent  if  I  had  tried !  In- 
stead of  money  flung  away,  that  passage-money  will 
turn  out  a  glorious  investment ;  we'll  show  a  clean  pair 
of  heels  in  the  opposite  direction,  while  our  good 
friends  here  think  of  nothing  but  that  one  steamer! 
And  so,  once  more,  everything  is  turning  out  well,  if 
only  I  can  keep  this  up  three  days  longer ;  if  only  Jem 
Pound  and  Frank  Compton  do  not  trouble  me ;  if  only 
— if  only  I  am  not  mistaken  and  misled  as  to  the  ease 
with  which  I  may  carry  oflf — my  prize  !  " 

And  strange  to  say,  as  he  thought  of  that  final 
coup,  the  villainy  faded  out  of  his  face — though 
the  act  contemplated  was  bad  enough,  in  all  con- 
science! 

All  at  once  a  creaking  noise  startled  Miles.  He 
rose  from  his  chair,  and  crossed  with  swift  noiseless 
steps  over  to  the  window.  A  man  was  lifting  himself 
gingerly  from  the  basket-work  chair — the  man  was 
Philip  Robson. 

Miles  leant  out  of  the  window,  seized  him  by  the 
collar,  and  drew  him  backward  with  a  thud  against 
the  wall  below  the  window. 

"  Eavesdropper !  listener !  "  hissed  Miles ;  and  quick 
as  lightning  he  changed  his  hold  from  the  doctor's 
collar  to  the  doctor's  wrists,  which  he  grabbed  with 
each  iron  hand  and  drew  upward  over  the  sill. 

The  sill  was  more  than  six  feet  from  the  ground. 
The  doctor  stood  on  tiptoe — helpless — in  a  trap.    The 

239 


At  Large 


doctor's  face  was  white  and  guilty.  The  doctor's 
tongue  was  for  the  moment  useless. 

"What  were  you  doing  there?"  Miles  demanded 
quietly,  but  with  a  nasty  look  about  the  eyes. 

"  I — I  had  been  asleep.  I  came  back  early  from  the 
moors  because  Edmonstone  insulted  me.  I  was  just 
awake.  Let  go  my  hands,  will  you?  I  heard  some- 
thing— a  very  little — I  could  not  help  it.  What  do  you 
mean  by  holding  my  wrists  like  this  ?  Leave  loose  of 
them,  I  say !  " 

"  Then  tell  me  what  you  heard." 

"  Something  that  I  could  not  understand.  If  you 
don't  let  me  go  this  instant,  I'll  sing  out !  " 

"  Will  you  stand  and  talk  sensibly,  and  listen  to  what 
I  tell  you?" 

"  Yes,  I  swear  I  will." 

"  There,  then,  you're  free.  Now  I'll  just  tell  you, 
in  effect,  what  you  did  hear,"  said  Miles,  whose  in- 
ventive brain  had  been  busy  from  the  moment  he 
had  discovered  Robson.  "  You  heard  Edmonstone 
speak  to  me  as  though  I  was  a  villain:  well,  he 
firmly  believes  I  am  one.  You  heard  him  read  me 
a  letter  from  some  one  '  wanting '  me :  he  has  read 
me  many  such  letters.  I  believe  you  heard  me  asking 
him  in  eflfect  not  to  tell  any  one,  and  thanking  him: 
this  is  what  I  make  a  point  of  doing.  The  fact  is, 
Edmonstone  is  under  the  delusion  that  I  am  a  man 
who  robbed  him  in  Australia.  This  is  what's  the 
matter!" 

Miles  tapped  his  forehead  significantly. 

"  You  don't  mean  it!  "  cried  Robson,  starting  back. 

"I  do ;  but  not  so  loud,  man.  His  friends  don't 
240 


Extremities 

suspect  anything;  they  needn't  know;  it's  only  on  this 
one  point.  What,  didn't  you  hear  our  last  words? 
I  said,  *  It  seems  like  madness.'  He  answered,  '  My 
old  mate  ' — meaning  the  man  who  was  with  him  at 
the  time  of  the  robbery — '  my  old  mate,'  he  says, 
'  swears  that  I  am  mad  on  that  subject.' " 

"  Whew !  "  whistled  the  doctor.  "  Yes,  I  heard 
that." 

"  It  speaks  for  itself,  eh?  But  I  put  it  to  you  as  a 
medical  man,"  said  Miles,  rising  still  more  fully  to  the 
occasion,  and  remembering  the  doctor's  weak  point: 
"  I  put  it  to  you  as  a  medical  man — has  there  not  been 
something  strange  about  his  manner?  " 

Robson  thought  at  once  of  the  disagreeable  inci- 
dent of  the  morning. 

"There  has,  indeed,"  he  said,  without  hesitation; 
"  I  have  noticed  it  myself!  " 

Even  Miles  marvelled  at  his  own  adroitness;  he  was 
elated,  and  showed  it  by  fetching  a  deep  sigh. 

"Poor  Edmonstone!  he  is  quite  touched  on  the 
point.  Perhaps  the  affair  brought  on  a  fever  at  the 
time,  for  he  is  an  excitable  fellow,  and  that  would 
account  for  it." 

"But  is  he  safe?"  asked  Robson,  eagerly.  "He 
can't  be!" 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  is ;  quite.  I  repeat,  it  is  only  on  that 
one  point,  and  nobody  knows  it  here.  And,  mind, 
you  are  not  to  breathe  a  word  of  it  to  any  single 
soul!" 

Philip  was  entirely  taken  in  for  the  time  being;  but 
his  silence  was  another  matter.  That  could  only  be 
pardoned,  even  on  short  lease,  by  an  apology  from  the 

241 


At  Large 


rude  Colonial.  The  doctor's  wrists  smarted  yet;  his 
self-esteem  was  still  more  sore. 

"  I  am  so  likely,"  said  he,  with  fine  irony,  "  to  do 
your  bidding  after  the  manner  in  which  you  have 
treated  me!  " 

"  Call  it  taking  my  hint,"  said  Miles,  with  a  nasty 
expression  in  the  eyes  again.  "  You  will  find  it  a  hint 
worth  acting  upon." 

"  You  had  no  business  to  treat  me  as  you  did.  It 
was  a  gross  outrage !  "  said  the  doctor,  haughtily. 

"  Come,  now,  I  apologise.  It  arose  from  my  irrita- 
tion on  Edmonstone's  account,  at  the  thing  getting 
out.  For  his  sake,  you  must  indeed  promise  to  hold 
your  tongue." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Philip  Robson,  reluctantly;  "  I — I 
promise." 

And  he  meant  at  the  time  to  keep  his  promise,  if 
he  could.  In  fact,  he  did  keep  it.  For  a  little  calm 
reflection,  away  from  the  glamour  thrown  by  Miles's 
plausibility,  and  in  the  sober  light  of  Philip's  own 
professional  knowledge,  served  to  weaken  the  case  of 
insanity  against  Dick  Edmonstone.  At  the  same  time, 
reflection  strengthened  Edmonstone's  case  against 
Miles,  though  Robson  had  only  oblique  information 
as  to  the  specific  nature  of  that  case.  But  at  any  rate 
there  was  no  harm  in  opening  the  letter-box  (which 
was  cleared  in  the  morning)  late  at  night,  and  sending 
just  one  anonymous  line  to  the  same  name  and  address 
as  those  upon  the  envelope  directed  in  Edmonstone's 
hand.  If  Miles  was  really  a  forger  of  some  kind,  and 
Edmonstone  was  really  shielding  him,  then  there  was 
an  excellent  chance  of  scoring  off  them  both  at  once. 

242 


Extremities 

And  Philip  Robson  had  contracted  a  pretty  strong 
grudge  against  both  these  men  since  morning. 

Meanwhile  Miles  remained  subdued  and  pensive, 
furtively  attentive,  but  extremely  humble,  towards 
Miss  Bristo,  and  talkative  to  one  person  only — Mrs. 
Parish.  He  was  indeed,  as  he  said,  no  fool.  He  was 
full  of  cunning  and  coolness,  foresight  and  resource. 
He  was  biding  his  time — but  for  what? 


243 


XXIII 

THE   EFFECT   OF  A   PHOTOGRAPH 

Laurence  Pinckney  was  a  hopeless  sportsman. 
When  he  reaUsed  this  for  himself  he  laid  down  his 
gun,  and  presently  took  up  with  Miss  Bristo's  camera 
as  a  weapon  better  suited  to  him. 

Alice  had  made  no  use  of  the  apparatus  for  weeks 
and  weeks;  it  was  sent  down  with  other  luggage 
without  her  knowledge,  and  she  never  thought  of 
unpacking  it  until  Mr.  Pinckney  pleaded  for  instruc- 
tion; when — perhaps  because  Alice  felt  that  without 
an  occupation  this  visitor  would  be  on  her  hands 
all  day — he  did  not  plead  in  vain.  He  did  not, 
however,  require  many  lessons.  He  knew  something 
about  it  already,  having  given  the  subject  some  atten- 
tion (in  the  reading  room  of  the  British  Museum) 
before  writing  one  of  his  rollicking  articles.  Nor  were 
the  lessons  she  did  give  him  much  of  a  nuisance  to 
Alice,  for  when  he  forgot  to  talk  about  his  work,  and 
refrained  from  coruscation,  there  was  no  more  sensible 
and  polite  companion  than  Laurence  Pinckney. 

When,  therefore,  he  set  out  on  that  Friday's  ramble, 
which  produced  one  really  good  negative,  and  a  num- 
ber of  quaint  little  Arcadian  observations  jotted  down 
in  his  notebook,  it  was  with  the  entire  photographic 
impedimenta  slung  about  his  person,  and  some  idea 

244 


The  Effect  of  a  Photograph 

in  his  head  of  an  article  on  "  The  North  Yorkshire 
Dales,"  to  be  illustrated  by  the  writer's  own  photo- 
graphs. 

His  destination  was  a  certain  ancient  abbey,  set  in 
gorgeous  scenery,  eight  long  miles  from  Gateby.  But 
long  before  he  got  there  a  hollow  of  the  plain  country 
road  tempted  him,  and  he  fell. 

It  was  quite  an  ordinary  bit  of  road;  a  tall  hazel- 
hedge,  and  a  pathway  high  above  the  road  on  the  left; 
on  the  right,  a  fence  with  trees  beyond  it,  one  of  them, 
an  oak  of  perfect  form,  that  stood  in  the  foreground, 
being  of  far  greater  size  than  most  of  the  trees  in  this 
district,  and  in  strong  contrast  to  its  neighbours.  That 
was  really  all.  It  never  would  have  been  picturesque, 
nor  have  taken  our  artist's  fancy,  but  for  the  sunlight 
on  the  wet  road  and  the  fleecy  pallor  of  the  sky  where 
it  met  the  sharp  Hne  of  distant  dark  blue  hills  far  away 
over  the  hazel-hedge,  to  the  left.  But  the  sunlight 
was  the  thing.  It  came,  as  though  expressly  ordered, 
from,  so  to  say,  the  left  wing.  It  rested  lightly  on  the 
hedge-tops.  It  fell  in  a  million  golden  sparks  on  the 
shivering  leaves  of  the  old  oak.  But  it  cleared  the 
deep-cut  road  at  a  bound,  leaving  it  dark.  Only  a  long 
way  further  on,  where  the  bend  to  the  right  began, 
did  his  majesty  deign  to  step  down  upon  the  road; 
and  just  there,  because  everything  was  wet  from  last 
night's  rain,  it  was  a  road  of  silver. 

No  sooner,  however,  was  the  picture  focussed  than 
the  sun,  which  made  it  what  it  was,  disappeared  behind 
a  cloud — a  favourite  and  mischievous  dodge  of  his  for 
the  mortification  of  the  amateur  photographer. 

Now,  while  Pinckney  waited  for  the  sun  to  come 
245 


At  Large 


out  again,  which  he  saw  was  going  to  happen  imme- 
diately, and  while  he  held  in  his  fingers  the  pneumatic 
ball  connected  with  the  instantaneous  shutter,  two 
figures  appeared  at  the  bend  of  the  road  that  had  been 
silver  track  a  moment  before.  They  were  a  man  and 
a  woman,  trudging  along  with  the  width  of  the  road 
between  them.  Pinckney  watched  them  with  painful 
interest.  If  the  cloud  cleared  the  sun  at  that  moment 
they  would  be  horribly  in  the  way,  for  worse  clouds 
were  following  on  the  heels  of  this  one,  and  the  oppor- 
tunity must  be  seized.  There  was  nothing,  of  course, 
to  prevent  his  taking  the  tramps  as  they  walked — no, 
it  would  spoil  the  picture.  Stay,  though ;  it  would  add 
human  interest.  But  the  cloud  did  not  pass  so  rapidly 
after  all,  and  the  man  and  woman  drew  near  the 
camera. 

There  was  something  peculiar  in  the  appearance  of 
the  man  that  struck  Pinckney  at  once  as  un-English. 
This  peculiarity  was  difficult  to  localise.  It  was  not 
in  his  clothes,  which  indeed  looked  new,  but  it  was 
partly  in  his  heavy  face,  smooth-shaven  and  sun- 
tanned, partly  in  his  slow,  slouching,  methodical  walk, 
and  very  much  in  his  fashion  of  carrying  his  belong- 
ings. Instead  of  the  pudding-like  bundle  of  the  Eng- 
lish tramp  he  carried  across  his  shoulders  a  long, 
neatly-strapped  cylinder,  the  outer  coating  of  which 
was  a  blanket.  About  the  woman,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  was  nothing  to  strike  the  attention.  Pinckney's 
first  glance  took  in,  perhaps,  the  fact  that  her  black 
skirt  was  torn  and  draggled,  and  her  black  bodice  in 
startling  contrast  to  her  white  face ;  but  that  could  have 
been  all. 

246 


The  Effect  of  a  Photograph 

Back  came  the  sun,  in  a  hurry,  to  the  hedge-top 
and  the  oak-tree,  and  the  distant  curve  of  the  road. 
Pinckney  had  decided  in  favour  of  the  tramps  in  his 
picture,  but  they  were  come  too  near.  He  requested 
them  in  his  blandest  tones  to  retrace  a  few  steps.  To 
his  immense  surprise  he  was  interrupted  by  a  sullen 
oath  from  the  man,  who  at  once  quickened  his  steps 
forward,  motioning  to  the  woman  to  do  the  same. 

"  Thankee  for  nothing,  and  be  hanged  to  you !  Wait 
till  we  pass,  will  you?" 

If  Pinckney  had  wanted  further  assurance  that  the 
man  was  a  foreign  element,  these  sentences  should 
have  satisfied  him;  for  your  honest  British  rustic  is 
not  the  man  to  reject  the  favours  of  the  camera,  be  they 
never  so  promiscuous  and  his  chance  of  beholding  the 
result  never  so  remote. 

Pinckney's  answer,  however,  was  a  prompt  press- 
ure of  the  pneumatic  ball  in  his  hand — a  snap-shot 
at  short  range,  the  click  of  which  did  not  escape  the 
sharp  ears  of  the  strange-looking,  heavily-built  old 
man. 

"  Have  you  took  us?"  asked  he  fiercely. 

"  Oh  no,"  replied  the  photographer,  without  a  blush, 
"  I'm  waiting  till  you  pass;  look  sharp,  or  I'll  lose  the 
sun  again!  " 

The  man  scowled,  but  said  no  more.  Next  moment 
he  passed  by  on  one  side  of  the  camera,  and  the  woman 
on  the  other.  Pinckney  looked  swiftly  from  one  to 
the  other,  and  marked  well  the  face  of  each.  That  of 
the  man  repelled  him,  as  bull-dog  jaws  upon  a  thick, 
short  neck  and  small,  cruel-looking  glittering  eyes 
would  repel  most  of  us,  even  without  this  man's  vile 

247 


At~  Large 


expression.  The  man  was  tall  and  broad,  but  bent, 
and  he  looked  twenty  years  older  at  close  quarters  than 
at  a  distance.  The  woman,  on  the  other  hand,  was 
young,  but  so  worn,  and  pinched,  and  soured,  and 
wearied  that  you  had  to  look  closely  to  find  a  trace  of 
youth.  She  never  raised  her  eyes  from  the  ground  as 
she  walked;  but  Pinckney  made  sure  they  were  dark 
eyes,  for  the  well-formed  eyebrows  were  blue-black, 
like  a  raven's  feather.  Her  wrist-bone  showed  promi- 
nently— seeming  to  be  covered  by  little  more  than 
skin — as  she  caught  together  the  shawl  at  her  bosom 
with  her  left  hand;  a  plain  gold  hoop  was  on  its  third 
finger. 

Pinckney  watched  the  pair  out  of  sight,  still  walking 
with  the  whole  road  between  them. 

"  That  brute,"  muttered  Pinckney,  "  beats  his 
wife!" 

And  then  he  exposed  another  plate  from  the  same 
position,  packed  up  the  apparatus,  and  went  his 
way. 

Some  hours  later — towards  evening,  in  fact — as 
Pinckney  returned  from  his  ruined  abbey  and  came 
in  sight  of  Gateby,  the  rain — which  had  gathered 
during  the  afternoon — came  down  from  the  leaden 
twilit  sky  in  earnest.  It  rains  violently  in  the  dales; 
and  the  photographer,  hungry  though  he  was,  and 
more  than  ready  for  dinner,  saw  no  reason  for  getting 
wet  to  the  skin  when  the  village  was  within  a  stone's- 
throw,  and  the  shooting-box  half-a-mile  further  on. 
He  burst  into  the  inn  for  shelter;  and  honest  Robert 
Rutter  conducted  him  to  the  private  parlour  with  pe- 
culiar satisfaction,  having  been  intimate  with  Gateby 

248 


The  EfFect  of  a  Photograph 

rain  many  years,  and  knowing  also  a  thing  or  two 
about  the  appetites  of  gentlemen  from  the  south. 

Pinckney,  left  alone,  examined  the  room.  It  was 
gaudily  carpeted,  uncomfortably  furnished,  stuffy  for 
want  of  use  and  air,  and  crowded  with  gimcracks. 
Foxes  and  birds,  in  huge  cases,  were  perilously  bal- 
anced on  absurd  little  tables.  The  walls  were  covered 
with  inflamed-looking  prints,  the  place  of  honour 
being  occupied  by  portraits  of  mine  host  and  hostess 
unrecognisable.  The  large  square  centre-table  was 
laid  out  in  parterres  of  books  never  opened.  In  fact, 
the  parlour  was  not  what  you  would  have  expected  of 
the  remote  dales.  For  this  very  reason,  perhaps,  that 
realist  Pinckney  took  particular  pains  over  the  descrip- 
tion which  was  promptly  set  down  in  his  note-book. 
The  landlord  coming  in  during  the  writing,  moreover, 
the  poor  man's  words  were  taken  out  of  his  mouth  and 
set  down  red-hot,  and  on  the  phonetic  principle,  in  a 
parenthesis. 

This  visit  of  Rutter's  resulted  subsequently  in  a 
heavy  supper  of  ham  and  eggs  and  beer,  and  a  fire 
in  the  parlour,  before  which  Pinckney  contentedly 
smoked,  listening  to  the  rain,  which  was  coming  down 
indeed  in  torrents. 

It  was  while  this  easy-going  youth  was  in  the  most 
comfortable  post-prandial  condition  that  the  voices  in 
a  room,  separated  from  the  parlour  only  by  a  narrow 
passage,  grew  loud  enough  to  be  distinctly  audible  in 
it.  Up  to  this  point  the  conversation  had  been  low 
and  indistinct,  occasional  laughter  alone  rising  above 
an  undertone;  now  the  laughter  was  frequent  and 
hearty.     The  reasons  were  that  the  room  in  question 

249 


At  Large 


was  the  tap-room,  and  the  fourth  round  of  beer  was 
already  imbibed.  One  voice — in  which  the  local  ac- 
cents were  missed — led  the  talk;  the  rest  interjacu- 
lated. 

Mr.  Pinckney  pricked  up  his  ears,  and  of  course 
whipped  out  the  insatiable  note-book.  Simultane- 
ously, in  the  kitchen,  connected  with  the  tap-room  on 
the  opposite  side,  the  landlord  and  his  wife,  with  the 
schoolmaster  and  his,  were  bending  forward,  and  sol- 
emnly Hstening  to  the  stranger's  wild  stories,  with  the 
door  ajar.  Thus  the  glib-tongued  personage  had  more 
listeners,  and  more  sober  listeners,  than  he  was  aware 
of. 

"Sharks?"  he  was  saying.  "Seen  sharks?  You 
bet  I  have!  Why,  when  I  was  or'nary  seaman — be- 
twixt Noocastle,  Noo  South  Wales  and  'Frisco  it  was ; 
with  coals — we  counted  twenty-seven  of  'em  around 
the  ship  the  morning  we  was  becalmed  in  three  south. 
And  that  afternoon  young  Billy  Bunting — the  darling 
of  our  crew  he  was — he  fell  overboard,  and  was  took. 
Took,  my  lads,  I  say!  Nothin'  left  on'y  a  patch  of  red 
in  the  blue  water  and  a  whole  set  of  metal  buttons  when 
we  landed  Mister  John  Shark  next  morning."  (Sen- 
sation.) "  And  that's  gospel.  But  the  next  shark 
as  we  got — and  we  was  becalmed  three  weeks  that  go 
— the  skipper  he  strung  him  up  to  the  spanker-boom, 
an'  shot  his  blessed  eyes  out  with  a  revolver;  'cause 
little  Billy  had  been  pet  of  the  ship,  d'ye  see?  And 
then  we  let  him  back  into  the  briny;  and  a  young  devil 
of  an  apprentice  dived  over  and  swam  rings  round 
him,  'cause  he  couldn't  see;  and  it  was  the  best  game 
o'  blindman's  bufif  ever  you  seed  in  your  born  days." 

250 


The  Effect  of  a  Photograph 

(Merriment.)  "What!  Have  ye  never  heard  tell 
o'  the  shark  in  Corio  Bay,  an'  what  he  done?  Oh,  but 
I'll  spin  that  yarn." 

And  spin  it  he  did;  though  before  he  had  got  far 
the  landlady  exchanged  glances  with  the  school- 
master's lady,  and  both  good  women  evinced  pre- 
monitory symptoms  of  sickness,  so  that  the  worthy 
schoolmaster  hastily  took  "  his  missis "  home,  and 
hurried  back  himself  to  hear  the  end. 

"A  sailor,"  said  Pinckney,  listening  in  the  parlour; 
"  and  even  at  that  an  admirable  liar." 

He  went  out  into  the  passage,  and  peeped  through 
the  chink  of  the  door  into  the  tap-room.  In  the  middle 
of  the  long  and  narrow  table,  on  which  the  dominoes 
for  once  lay  idle,  stood  one  solitary  tallow  candle,  and 
all  around  were  the  shadowy  forms  of  rustics  in  various 
attitudes  of  breathless  attention — it  was  a  snake-story 
they  were  listening  to  now;  and  the  face  of  the  nar- 
rator, thrust  forward  close  to  the  sputtering  wick,  was 
the  smooth,  heavy,  flexible  face  of  the  man  whom 
Pinckney  had  photographed  unawares  on  the  road. 

Pinckney  went  softly  back  to  the  parlour,  whistling 
a  low  note  of  surprise. 

"No  wonder  I  didn't  recognise  the  voice!  That 
voice  is  put  on.  The  surly  growl  he  gave  me  this 
morning  in  his  natural  tone.  He's  making  up  to  the 
natives;  or  else  the  fellow's  less  of  a  brute  when  he's 
drunk,  and  if  that's  so,  some  philanthropist  ought  to 
keep  him  drunk  for  his  natural  life.  The  terms  might 
be  mutual.  *  I  keep  you  in  drink,  in  return  for  which 
you  conduct  yourself  like  a  Christian, — though  an 
intoxicated  one,  to  me  and  all  men.' " 

251 


At  Large 


"  Who  is  that  customer?  "  Pinckney  asked  of  Bob 
Rutter,  as  they  settled  up  outside  on  the  shining  flags 
— shining  in  the  starhght;  for  the  heavy  rain  had  sud- 
denly stopped,  and  the  sky  as  suddenly  cleared,  and 
the  stars  shone  out,  and  a  drip,  drip,  drip  fell  upon 
the  ear  from  all  around,  and  at  each  breath  the  nostril 
drew  in  a  fragrance  sweeter  than  flowers. 

"  He's  a  sailor,"  said  honest  Rutter;  "  that's  all  I 
know;  I  don't  ask  no  questions.  He  says  his  last  voy- 
age was  to — Australia,  I  think  they  call  it — and  back." 

"  I  saw  he  was  a  sailor,"  said  Pinckney. 

"  He  asked,"  continued  Rutter,  "  if  there  was  any- 
body from  them  parts  hereabout;  and  I  said  not  as  I 
knowed  on, till  I  remembered  waddycallum,your  crack 
shot,  up  there,  and  tould  him;  and  he  seemed  pleased." 

"Has  he  nobody  with  him?"  asked  Pinckney,  re- 
membering the  wan-faced  woman. 

"  Yes — a  wife  or  sumthink." 

"  Where  is  she?  " 

"  In  t'blacksmith's  shed." 

Rutter  pointed  to  a  low  shed  that  might  have  been 
a  cow-house,  but  in  point  of  fact  contained  a  forge 
and  some  broken  ploughshares. 

"  Landlord,"  said  Pinckney,  severely,  "  you  ought 
to  turn  that  low  blackguard  out,  and  not  take  another 
farthing  of  his  money  until  he  finds  the  woman  a  fit 
place  to  sleep  in!  " 

And  with  that  young  Pinckney  splashed  indignantly 
out  into  the  darkness,  and  along  the  watery  road  to 
the  shooting-box.  There  he  found  everyone  on  the 
point  of  going  to  bed.  He  was  obliged,  for  that  night, 
to  keep  to  himself  the  details  of  his  adventures;  but, 

252 


The  Effect  of  a  Photograph 

long  after  the  rest  of  the  premises  were  in  darkness, 
a  ruby-coloured  Hght  burned  in  Mr.  Pinckney's  room ; 
lie  had  actually  the  energy  to  turn  his  dry-plates  into 
finished  negatives  before  getting  into  bed,  though  he 
had  tramped  sixteen  miles  with  accoutrements!  Not 
only  that,  but  he  got  up  early,  and  had  obtained  a  sun- 
print  of  each  negative  before  going  over  to  breakfast. 
His  impatience  came  of  his  newness  to  photography; 
it  has  probably  been  experienced  by  every  beginner 
in  this  most  fascinating  of  crafts. 

These  prints  he  stowed  carefully  in  his  pocket, 
closely  buttoning  his  coat  to  shield  them  from  the 
light.  At  breakfast  he  produced  them  one  by  one, 
and  handed  them  round  the  table  on  the  strict  under- 
standing that  each  person  should  glance  at  each  print 
for  one  second  only.  They  were  in  their  raw  and 
perishable  state;  but  a  few  seconds'  exposure  to  the 
light  of  the  room,  said  the  perpetrator,  would  not  affect 
them.  In  truth,  no  one  wished  to  look  at  them  longer; 
they  were  poor  productions :  the  light  had  got  in  here, 
the  focus  was  wrong  in  that  one.  But  Mr.  Pinckney 
knew  their  faults,  and  he  produced  the  last  print,  and 
the  best,  with  the  more  satisfaction. 

"  This  one,"  said  he,  "  will  astonish  you.  It's  a  suc- 
cess, though  I  say  it.  Moreover,  it's  the  one  I  most 
wanted  to  come  out  well — a  couple  of  tramps  taken 
unawares.  This  print  you  must  look  at  only  half-a- 
second  each." 

He  handed  it  to  Alice,  who  pronounced  it  a  triumph 
— as  it  was — and  glanced  curiously  at  the  downcast 
face  of  the  woman  in  the  foreground.  She  handed  it 
to  the  doctor,  sitting  next  her.     The  doctor  put  the 

253 


At  Large 


print  in  his  uncle's  hand,  at  the  head  of  the  table. 
The  Colonel's  comment  was  good-natured.  He  held 
out  the  print  to  Miles,  who  took  it  carelessly  from  him, 
and  leant  back  in  his  chair. 

Now  as  Miles  leant  back,  the  sunlight  fell  full  upon 
him.  It  streamed  through  a  narrow  slit  of  a  window  at 
the  end  of  the  room — the  big  windows  faced  southwest 
— and  its  rays  just  missed  the  curve  of  table-cloth 
between  the  Colonel  and  Miles.  But  on  Miles  the 
rays  fell:  on  his  curly  light-brown  hair,  clear  dark 
skin,  blond  beard  and  moustache;  and  his  blue  eyes 
twinkled  pleasantly  under  their  touch.  As  he  idly 
raised  the  print,  leaning  back  in  the  loose  rough  jacket 
that  became  him  so  well,  the  others  there  had  never 
seen  him  more  handsome,  tranquil,  and  unconcerned. 

Miles  raised  the  print  with  slow  indiflference,  glanced 
at  it,  jerked  it  suddenly  upward,  and  held  it  with  both 
hands  close  before  his  eyes.  They  could  not  see  his 
face.  But  the  sunlight  fell  upon  the  print,  and  Pinck- 
ney  cried  out  an  excited  protest: 

"  Look  out,  I  say!  Hold  it  out  of  the  sun,  please! 
Give  it  here,  you'll  spoil  the  print!" 

But  Miles  did  not  heed,  even  if  he  heard.  The 
square  of  paper  was  quivering,  though  held  by  two 
great  strong  hands.  All  that  they  could  see  of  Miles's 
face  behind  it  was  the  brow:  it  was  deeply  scored  across 
and  across — it  was  pale  as  ashes. 

A  minute  passed;  then  the  print  was  slowly  dropped 
upon  the  table.  No  print  now:  only  a  sheet  of  glossy 
reddish-brown  paper. 

Miles  burst  into  a  low,  harsh  laugh. 

"  A  good  likeness !  "  he  said  slowly.  "  But  it  has 
254 


The  Effect  of  a  Photograph 

vanished,  clean  gone,  and,  I  fear,  through  my  fault. 
Forgive  me,  Pinckney,  I  didn't  understand  you. 
I  thought  the  thing  was  finished.  I  know  nothing 
about  such  things — I'm  an  ignorant  bushman  " — with 
a  ghastly  smile — "  but  I  thought — I  couldn't  help 
thinking,  when  it  vanished  like  that — that  it  was  all  a 
hoax!" 

He  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  stalked  to  the  door. 
No  one  spoke — no  one  knew  what  to  say — one  and 
all,  they  were  mystified.  On  the  threshold  Miles 
turned,  and  looked  pleadingly  towards  the  Colonel  and 
Alice. 

"Pray  forgive  me,  I  am  covered  with  shame;  but 
— but  it  was  strangely  like  some  one — some  one  long 
dead,"  said  Miles,  Hoarsely — and  slowly,  with  the 
exception  of  the  last  four  words,  which  were  low  and 
hurried.  And  with  that  he  went  from  the  room,  and 
cannoned  in  the  passage  against  Dick  Edmonstone, 
who  was  late  for  breakfast. 

That  day,  the  champion  from  Australia  shot  exe- 
crably, which  was  inexplicable;  and  he  kept  for  ever 
casting  sudden  glances  over  his  shoulders,  and  on  all 
sides  of  him,  which  was  absurd. 


255 


XXIV 

THE   EFFECT    OF   A   SONG 

Late  that  afternoon,  in  Robert  Rutter's  meadow 
at  the  back  of  the  inn,  a  man  and  a  woman  stood  in 
close  conversation.  The  man  was  Jem  Pound,  the 
woman  EHzabeth  Ryan. 

"  Then  you  have  not  seen  him  yet?" 

"  No,  not  yet;  I  have  had  no  chance." 

"  You  mean  that  you  have  been  drunk,  Jem 
Pound!" 

"  Not  to  say  drunk,  missis.  But  I've  been  over  to 
a  town  called  Melmerbridge,  and  I  went  a  long  way 
round  so  as  not  to  cross  the  moor.  They're  shooting 
up  there  all  day.  It'd  be  no  sort  o'  use  tackling  him 
there." 

"  But  surely  they  are  back  by  now  ? "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Ryan,  impatiently.  "  I  tell  you  he  must  be  seen 
to-day — this  evening — now." 

"Ay,  ay;  I'm  just  going.  Straight  along  this  path 
it  is,  across  a  few  fields,  and  there  you  are — opposite 
the  house;  and  you  may  trust  me " 

"  I  know ;  I  have  seen  it  for  myself.  But  I  am 
going  too." 

This  was  precisely  what  Pound  did  not  want.  He 
was  treating  the  woman  with  unwonted  civility,  not 
to  say  respect,  with  a  view  to  the  more  easily  dis- 

256 


The  Effect  of  a  Song 

suading  her  from  dangerous  projects.  And  this  was 
a  dangerous  project  from  Pound's  point  of  view;  but 
Mrs.  Ryan  had  set  her  soul  upon  it.  Argue  as  Jem 
would,  she  was  bent  upon  seeing  her  husband  with 
her  own  eyes,  and  at  once.  And  there,  with  that  thin 
white  face  of  hers  she  might  go  and  get  him  actually 
to  pity  her,  and  spoil  everything — for  Jem  Pound. 

"  After  finding  him  again,  do  you  think  I  will  endure 
this  a  moment  longer?"  asked  Elizabeth  scornfully. 

Pound's  reply  was  in  the  reflective  manner. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  with  slow  deliberation,  "  I'm  not 
sure  but  what  it  mightn't,  after  all,  do  good  for  you 
to  see  him." 

"  Good — do  good!  To  whom?  What  do  you  mean? 
What  have  you  to  do  with  it?  " 

Pound  ground  his  teeth;  he  had  everything  to  do 
with  it.  It  was  the  old  story  over  again:  this  woman 
was  using  him  as  the  guide  to  her  own  ends,  yet  would 
cut  him  adrift  the  very  moment  those  ends  were  in 
sight.  How  he  hated  her!  With  his  lips  he  cringed 
to  her,  in  his  heart  he  ground  her  to  powder;  but  if 
he  was  not  in  the  position  to  bully  her  to-day,  he  had 
lost  few  opportunities  when  he  was;  and  he  was  at 
least  forearmed  against  her. 

He  aflfected  a  bluflf  kindliness  of  manner  that  would 
not  have  deceived  her  had  Mrs.  Ryan  been  a  Httle 
more  composed. 

"  Look  here,  missis,  you  and  me,  we've  been  bound 
up  in  a  ticklish  job  together.  I  don't  say  as  I've  always 
done  by  you  as  I  should,  but  there  is  allowances  to 
be  made  for  a  man  that  carries,  as  they  say,  his  life 
in  his  hand,  and  that's  staked  his  life  on  this  here  job. 

257 


At  Large 


I  don't  say,  either,  as  we're  both  on  the  exact  same 
tack,  but  one  thing's  certain;  we  must  work  together 
now,  and  if  you  can't  work  my  way,  why,  I  must  work 
yours.  Now,  missis,  you  ain't  fit  for  the  strain  of 
seeing  him.  If  you  could  see  your  own  face  you'd 
know  it,  ma'am." 

Her  eyes  had  opened  wide  at  his  tone;  she  sighed 
deeply  at  his  last  words. 

"  No,"  she  said  sadly,  "  I  know  I'm  not  fit  for  much. 
But  I  must  go — I  must  go." 

"  Then  if  you  must,  ma'am,  take  a  teaspoonful  of 
this  first.  It'll  help  you  through,  and  anyway  keep 
you  from  fainting,  as  you  did  last  time.  I  got  it  in 
Melmerbridge  this  afternoon,  after  I  see  you  look  so 
sick." 

He  uncorked  a  small  flask  and  held  it  to  her  lips. 

"  What  is  it?  " 

"  Brandy— the  best." 

"And  water?" 

"  Half  and  half.     Remember  that  other  night!  " 

"  He  is  right,"  muttered  the  woman :  "  there  must 
be  no  fainting  this  time." 

She  sipped  from  the  bottle  and  felt  revived. 

"  Now  we  will  go,"  she  said,  sternly. 

They  crossed  the  meadow,  and  so  over  the  stile  into 
the  potato-field  that  came  next.  Then  Pound  began 
to  lag  behind  and  watch  his  companion.  When  they 
reached  the  gate  she  was  reeling;  she  clung  to  the 
gate-post,  and  waited  for  him  to  come  up. 

"  You  fiend !  "  she  screamed,  glaring  impotently 
upon  him.  "  Poisoner  and  fiend!  You  have — 
you — " 

258 


The  Effect  of  a  Song 

She  fell  senseless  at  his  feet  without  finishing  the 
sentence.  Pound  surveyed  the  helpless  heap  of  clothes 
with  complete  satisfaction. 

"  Drugged  you,  eh?  Is  that  what  you'd  say?  Nay, 
hardly,  my  lass:  p'r'aps  the  brandy  was  risky  for  a 
fool  of  a  woman  that  won't  eat — p'r'aps  it  was  very 
near  neat — p'r'aps  there  was  more  in  it  than  that; 
anyway  you  took  it  beautiful — lovely,  you  devil  in 
petticoats! " 

He  raised  her  easily  enough  in  his  strong  arms, 
carried  her  through  the  gate  into  the  next  field,  and 
dropped  her  upon  a  late  heap  of  hay  some  distance 
from  the  track. 

"  Playing  at  triangles,"  said  Pound,  "  it  must  be 
two  to  one,  or  all  against  all:  one  thing  it  sha'n't  be 
— two  to  one,  and  Jem  Pound  the  one!  There  you 
lie  until  you're  wanted,  my  dear.     So  long  to  you!  " 

And  with  that  this  wretch  strolled  off. 

The  gap  in  the  hedge  dividing  the  last  of  these  few 
fields  from  the  road,  and  ending  the  path,  occurred  a 
few  yards  below  the  shooting-box.  Pound  crept  along 
the  ditch  between  hedge  and  field  until  he  judged  he 
was  opposite  the  gate  of  the  shooting-box.  Then  he 
stood  up,  parted  the  hedge  where  it  was  thinnest,  and 
peered  through.  The  room  to  the  right  of  the  porch 
was  lit  up  within;  though  the  blinds  were  drawn,  the 
windows  were  wide  open.  Pound  could  hear  a  low 
continuous  murmur  of  voices  and  other  sounds,  which 
informed  him  that  the  party  were  still  dining.  He 
waited  patiently.  At  last  he  heard  a  pushing  back  of 
chairs:  it  must  be  over  now,  he  thought;  but  no,  the 
voices  recommenced,  pitched  in  a  slightly  louder  key. 

259 


At  Large 


The  windows  on  the  left  of  the  porch  shone  out  as 
brightly  as  their  neighbours  on  the  right  of  it.  Light 
fingers  ran  nimbly  over  the  keys  of  a  piano — only 
once — no  tune  came  of  it. 

Pound,  too,  had  fingers  that  could  not  long  be  idle: 
thick,  knotty,  broad-nailed,  supple-jointed;  fingers 
that  showed  the  working  of  the  mind.  They  were 
busy  now.  In  a  little  while  all  the  hedge  within  their 
reach  was  stripped  of  its  simple  charms — its  bluebells, 
its  pink  foxgloves,  its  very  few  wild  roses.  Even  the 
little  leaves  of  the  hedge  were  plucked  away  by  the 
handful;  and  on  the  grass,  had  it  been  lighter,  you 
might  have  discovered  in  the  torn  and  mutilated  shreds 
of  leaf  and  petal  some  index  to  the  watcher's  thoughts. 
At  last  there  was  a  general  movement  inside.  Dark 
forms  appeared  on  the  steps.  Two  or  three  came  down 
the  steps,  and  turned  the  corner  of  the  house.  One 
sauntered  to  the  gate  and  peered  up  and  down  the 
road.     There  was  no  mistaking  this  figure. 

Pound  uttered  in  a  low  key  a  cry  that  is  as  common 
in  the  Australian  bush  as  it  is  uncommon  elsewhere. 
He  expected  his  man  to  start  as  though  shot,  but  he 
was  disappointed.  Ryan  gave  one  sharp  glance 
towards  the  hedge,  then  passed  through  the  gate,  and 
on  to  the  gap. 

"  Lord!  how  he  takes  it!  "  murmured  Pound.  "  Did 
he  expect  me?  Has  he  been  on  the  look-out  night  and 
day  all  this  while?" 

At  the  gap  they  met.  Pound  could  restrain  his  ex- 
ultation no  longer. 

"At  last!" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other,  stepping  quietly  through  the 
260 


The  Effect  of  a  Song 

gap.  He  had  given  the  whole  day  to  preparation  for 
this  interview;  but  he  had  expected  it  to  be  an  inter- 
view of  three.  Where  was  his  wife?  "  Yes,  and  the 
fewer  words  the  better.  How  you  got  here  I  neither 
know  nor  care;  tell  me  what  you  want  now  that  you 
are  here." 

"  You  know  very  well  what  I  want." 

"  I  may  make  a  rough  guess." 

"  I  want  money !  " 

"  I  thought  so.  It  is  a  pity.  You  must  go  some- 
where else  for  it:  I  have  none." 

"What!"  cried  Pound,  savagely,  "is  it  all  gone? 
All  that  you  landed  with?  Never!  You  have  never 
got  through  all  that!" 

" '  All  that '  is  under  a  gum-tree  somewhere  in 
Queensland,  unless  some  one  has  found  it  lately.  I 
told  you  so  before,  didn't  I?  How  could  I  clear  out 
with  the  gold?  How  could  I  risk  going  back  for  it 
when  once  I  got  away?  All  I  brought  with  me  was 
what  never  left  my  body:  the  notes  and  some  gold. 
It  didn't  come  to  much;  the  last  of  it  went  long 
since." 

"  Then  how  have  you  lived — ^what  on?  " 

"  My  wits." 

Jem  Pound  was  in  a  towering  passion. 

"  If  I  believed  you,"  he  hissed  out,  among  his  oaths, 
"  I'd  make  a  clean  breast  of  everything — every  blessed 
job — though  I  swung  for  it!  No;  I'd  swing  merrily, 
knowing  they'd  got  you  snug  for  the  rest  of  your 
days,  for  you'd  be  worse  oflf  than  me,  Ned  Ryan! 
But  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it;  it's  a  lie — a  lie — a 
lie!" 

261 


At  Large 


The  utterance  was  that  of  a  choking  man.  Miles 
wondered  whether  the  man  had  the  spirit  to  carry  out 
what  he  threatened;  he  seemed  desperate,  and  such 
confessions  had  been  made  before  by  desperate  men. 
That  the  five  hundred  ounces  of  gold  had  been  aban- 
doned by  Sundown  in  his  flight  was  the  simple  truth. 
Yet  if  Pound  realised  this,  he  was  capable  of  any 
lengths  of  vengeance — even  to  putting  his  own  neck 
in  the  noose,  as  he  said.  Better,  perhaps,  leave  him 
his  delusion,  and  let  him  still  think  that  the  gold  had 
been  brought  over;  better  give  a  sop  to  Cerberus — 
even  though  it  were  only  a  promise  to-day  and  a  few 
pounds  to-morrow;  for  the  next  day — well,  the  next 
day  Cerberus  might  growl  in  vain.  But  a  fair  round 
sum  for  Pound,  if  only  it  could  be  raised  and  handed 
over  immediately,  would  raise  high  hopes  of  "  the 
share"  he  coveted;  would  make  him  believe  that  the 
stronger  man  had  given  way  at  last ;  would  pacify  him 
for  the  time  being — which  was  all  that  was  necessary. 
For  in  two  days  Ned  Ryan  meant  to  fly  from  that  place 
— in  three,  the  shores  of  England  should  fade  from  his 
sight  for  ever.  Pound  must  be  put  off  his  guard,  like 
the  rest;  a  fair  round  sum  might  do  it — say  fifty 
pounds.  Fifty  pounds,  then,  must  be  raised  that 
night. 

"  Jem  Pound,"  said  Sundown,  in  tones  of  capitula- 
tion, "  there  is  no  getting  over  you!  I  throw  up  my 
hand,  for  the  game's  up.  I  thought  I  could  get  the 
best  of  you,  Jem,  but.  Lord!  I  didn't  know  my  man, 
and  that's  the  fact.  But  listen  to  sense:  you  don't 
suppose  I've  got  that  money  here,  do  you?  It's  in 
London ;  you  shall  have  five  hundred  of  it  in  hard  cash, 

262 


The  Effect  of  a  Song 

if  you  swear  to  stand  by  me,  next  week.  I  go  up  next 
week;  you  go  before  me  and  wait.  You  refuse?  Stay, 
then;  hear  me  out:  you  shall  have  fifty  down,  on  this 
very  spot,  at  this  very  hour,  to-morrow  night !  " 

"  Do  you  mean  it?  "  asked  Pound,  suspiciously,  his 
breath  coming  quick  and  rapid  with  the  excitement  of 
the  moment — his  moment  of  victory. 

"  Every  word  of  it." 

"  Fifty  pounds — to-morrow  night?  " 

"  Every  penny  of  it.  Oh,  there's  no  use  in  disguis- 
ing it;  you've  got  the  better  of  me,  Jem,  and  I  must 
stump  up." 

Pound  looked  at  him  doubtfully,  wishing  to  believe, 
yet  finding  it  difficult. 

"You  gave  us  the  slip  before,"  he  said;  "how  do 
we  know  you  won't  do  it  again?" 

"  Watch  me — watch  me,"  he  said. 

"  Ay,  we  must  and  we  will !  " 

"  You  need  not  remind  me  of — of  her !  "  cried  Ryan, 
fiercely,  all  in  a  moment. 

"Ah,  poor  thing,  poor  thing!"  said  Pound. 

"  Why,  has  anything  happened?  " 

"Poor  soul!" 

"Speak,  man,  for  God's  sake!     Is  she — is  she — " 

Ryan  could  not  get  out  the  word,  trembling  as  he 
was  with  intense  excitement.  Pound  broke  into  a 
brutal  laugh. 

"  No,  Ned  Ryan,  she  isn't  dead,  if  that's  what  you 
want.  I  am  sorry  for  you.  Now  that  you're  going 
to  behave  handsome,  I  should  have  liked  to  bring  you 
good  news.  Yet,  though  she  hangs  on  still,  she's 
going  down  the  hill  pretty  quick — her  own  way.    But 

263 


At  Large 


she's  waiting  for  us  three  fields  off;  we'd  better  go  to 
her  before  she  comes  to  us.     Come  this  way." 

Pound  led  the  way  to  the  hay-field.  Miles  followed 
him,  filled  with  foreboding.  What  had  happened  to 
Elizabeth?  Was  the  woman  ill?  Was  she  dying?  Bad 
as  he  was — bad  as  she  was — could  he  go  coldly  on  his 
way  and  let  her  die?  He  thought  of  her  as  he  had 
seen  her  last,  two  months  ago;  and  then  strangely 
enough,  he  figured  her  as  he  had  first  seen  her,  many, 
many  years  ago.    Poor  thing!  poor  Liz! 

"  She  is  not  here,"  said  Pound,  when  he  came  to  the 
gate  that  Elizabeth  Ryan  had  clung  to.  "  Now  I 
wonder — stay!  what  is  that  over  there?  Come,  let's 
look.     It  may  be — by  Heaven,  it  is  your  wife !  " 

He  had  pointed  to  a  dark  object  among  the  mounds 
of  hay.  Now  the  two  men  stood  looking  down  on  the 
insensible  form  of  Elizabeth  Ryan. 

"No,  not  death,"  said  Pound;  "only  brandy!" 

The  husband  looked  down  upon  his  wretched  wife 
without  speaking  or  moving.  Oh,  that  it  were  death ! 
His  muscles  were  rigid — repugnance  and  loathing 
froze  him  to  the  bone.  How  white  her  face  was  in  the 
faint  moonshine !  how  white  that  hand  under  the  white 
cheek!  and  the  other  hand  stretched  helplessly  out — 
good  God!  the  wedding-ring  he  had  placed  there,  she 
dared  to  wear  it  still!     Oh,  that  this  were  death! 

And  a  minute  ago  he  had  thought  of  her — for  some 
seconds  together — not  unkindly! 

At  last  Ryan  spoke. 

"  I  dare  swear,"  he  murmured,  as  though  speaking 
to  himself,  "  that  she  has  not  got  our  certificate !  A 
ring  is  no  proof." 

264 


The  EfFect  of  a  Song 

Pound  knelt  down  and  shook  some  sense  into  the 
woman's  head. 

"Eh?    What  is  it?    Where  am  I?" 

He  whispered  hurriedly  in  her  ear:  "  He  is  here — 
your  husband.  He  says  something  about  your  having 
no  proof  that  you  are  his  wife.  Give  me  the  certifi- 
cate!" 

Without  grasping  the  meaning  of  any  but  the 
last  word,  Elizabeth  Ryan  mechanically  drew  forth 
from  her  bosom  a  folded  square  of  paper.  Pound 
took  it  from  her,  and  unfolded  it  with  his  back 
to  Ryan.  When  he  faced  about,  Pound  held  the 
certificate  in  his  left  hand  and  a  revolver  in  his 
right. 

Ryan  paid  no  heed  to  the  pistol,  beyond  recognising 
it  as  one  of  his  own — the  fellow,  in  fact,  to  the  one  he 
at  that  moment  carried  in  his  own  pocket;  Pound's 
last  transaction,  as  a  member  of  Sundown's  gang, 
having  been  to  help  himself  to  this  and  other  trifles 
as  keepsakes.  The  production  of  the  weapon  Ryan 
treated,  or  affected  to  treat,  with  contempt.  The  cer- 
tificate took  up  his  whole  attention.  Yet  one  glance, 
even  in  the  moonlight,  was  sufficient  to  show  him  that 
the  certificate  was  genuine. 

"  You  may  put  them  both  away,"  was  all  he  said. 
"  But  remember:  to-morrow  night,  same  spot  and 
hour.  Or  let  us  say  here,  at  this  gate:  it  is  farther 
from  the  house." 

He  turned  to  go,  but  suddenly  recoiled,  being  face 
to  face  with  his  wife,  who  had  struggled  to  her  feet. 
With  a  strange  wild  cry  the  woman  flung  herself  into 
his  arms.    Ryan  caught  her,  held  her  one  instant,  then 

265 


At  Large 


dashed  her  heavily  to  the  ground,  and  fled  like  a  mur- 
derer from  the  place. 

The  poor  thing  lay  groaning,  yet  sobered. 

"  Ah,  I  remember,"  she  moaned  at  last,  gathering 
up  her  bruised  and  aching  limbs.  "  I  was  drugged — 
by  you ! " 

The  look  of  terrible  hatred  which  she  darted  at  Jem 
Pound  was  ineffable  but  calm.  He  answered  her  with 
a  stout  denial: 

"  I  gave  you  nothing  but  brandy,  and  that  I  gave 
you  for  the  best.  I  didn't  mean  it  to  knock  you  over, 
but  I'm  not  sorry  it  did.  Bad  as  it  was,  it  would  have 
been  worse  if  you  had  seen  much  more  of  him." 

"Why?     What  did  he  say?" 

"  He  said  he  wouldn't  give  us  a  farthing.  No,  not 
if  you  were  starving.  He  said  you  were  less  than 
nothing  to  him  now.  He  said  we  might  do  our  worst, 
and  the  sooner  hell  swallowed  both  of  us  the  better 
he'd  like  it." 

Mrs.  Ryan  gave  a  little  cry  of  pain  and  anger.  She 
staggered  across  the  dewy  grass,  and  confronted 
Pound  at  arm's  length.  She  was  shaking  and  shiver- 
ing like  a  withered  leaf. 

"  Jem  Pound,"  said  she,  "  I  will  tell  you  what  I  have 
known  for  many  weeks,  but  hidden  from  you.  I  will 
tell  you  where  he  has  that  money,  or  some  of  it." 

"Where?"  cried  Pound. 

She  tapped  him  lightly  on  the  chest. 

"There!"  said  Mrs.  Ryan. 

"  How  the  devil  do  you  know?  " 

"  By  woman's  wit.  On  that  night,  when  my  hand 
rested  there  on  his  breast  for  one  moment,  he  pushed 

266 


The  Effect  of  a  Song 

me  from  him.  I  remembered  afterwards  that  he  started 
from  my  hand  as  though  I  touched  a  wound.  I  did 
the  same  thing  to-night,  only  on  purpose,  and  you 
know  how  he  took  it :  he  flung  me  to  the  ground  this 
time.  Mark  my  words,  there  is  that  which  he  values 
more  than  anything  else  hung  round  his  neck  and 
resting  there!  Whatever  it  is,  take  it,  Jem  Pound! 
Do  you  hear?  You  are  bad  enough  for  anything: 
then  take  it — even  if  you  have  to  take  his  life  with 
it!" 

Her  voice  was  hoarse  and  horrible,  yet  so  low  that 
it  could  scarcely  be  heard.  Without  waiting  for  an 
answer,  she  turned  swiftly  away  and  disappeared  in  the 
darkness. 

Jem  Pound  drew  a  long  deep  breath. 

"  This,"  said  he,  "  is  the  best  night's  work  I've  done 
since  I  came  back  to  the  Old  Country.  This  morning 
I  didn't  dream  of  anything  so  good.  Now  I  see  a  better 
night's  work  not  far  ahead!" 

He  proceeded  to  carve  a  cake  of  black  tobacco 
slowly  and  deliberately,  then  filled  his  pipe.  As  he  did 
this,  leaning  with  his  broad  back  against  the  gate,  a 
sound  came  to  his  ears  across  the  silent  sleeping 
meadows — a  strange  sound  to  him — the  sound,  in  fact, 
of  a  woman's  song.  His  pipe  was  by  this  time  loaded, 
and  the  mouthpiece  between  his  teeth.  Moreover,  the 
match-box  was  in  his  left  hand  and  a  match  in  his  right. 
Yet  Jem  Pound  actually  did  not  strike  that  match  until 
the  strange  sound  had  died  away! 

I  know  not  what  spirit  was  abroad  that  night  to 
invest  a  simple,  well-known  drawing-room  song  with 
the  sinews  of  Fate;  yet  not  only  in  the  fields,  but  far 

267 


At  Large 


up  the  road,  where  Colonel  Bristo  was  wandering  alone 
in  the  faint  light  of  the  sickle  moon,  the  low  clear  notes 
were  borne  out  on  the  wings  of  the  evening.  The 
Colonel  faced  about  at  the  first  note,  and  walked  back 
quite  quickly.  His  solitary  wanderings  at  all  times  of 
the  day  were  a  great  weakness  of  the  old  fellow,  but 
his  daughter's  singing  was  a  greater;  and  she  sang  so 
seldom  now.  He  walked  on  the  wet  grass  at  the  road- 
side rather  than  lose  a  note  through  the  noise  of  his 
own  footsteps;  and  lo!  when  he  came  near  the  house, 
he  descried  a  tall  figure  standing  motionless  in  the  very 
middle  of  the  road. 

Surely  some  spirit  was  abroad  that  night,  that  all  the 
waking  world  drew  near  and  listened  to  that  song  of 
Alice's!  It  should  have  been  a  greater  song — noble 
poetry  wedded  to  music  such  as  the  angels  make  in 
heaven  and  have  sometimes — in  golden  ages  gone  by 
— breathed  into  the  souls  of  men,  who  have  found  the 
secret  too  wondrous  sweet  and  terrible  to  keep.  To 
touch  the  sensibilities  of  the  diflferent  unknown  lis- 
teners, it  should  have  been  a  mighty  song  indeed !  But, 
you  see,  Alice  herself  knew  nothing  of  what  was  hap- 
pening; she  was  aware  of  only  one  listener,  who  was 
humbly  standing  by  her  side;  and  out  of  the  pitiful 
fulness  of  her  heart  she  sang  the  sad  and  simple  words 
that  you  have  heard  often  enough,  no  doubt: 

Falling  leaf  and  fading  tree, 
Lines  of  white  in  a  sullen  sea, 
Shadows  rising  on  you  and  me  ; 
The  swallows  are  making  them  ready  to  fly, 
Wheeling  out  on  a  windy  sky. 
Good-bye,  summer !  good-bye,  good-bye ! 
268 


The  Effect  of  a  Song 

A  thin  film  floated  over  the  eyes  of  Colonel  Bristo. 
The  same  thing  had  occasionally  happened  before  when 
his  daughter  sang.  But  lately  she  had  been  singing  so 
little,  and  the  song  was  so  sad,  and  the  voice  more 
plaintive  than  it  had  ever  been  formerly. 

As  for  Miles,  the  other  listener  in  the  road,  he  stood 
like  one  entranced.  Her  singing  had  haunted  his  soul 
now  many  weeks;  it  was  many  weeks  since  he  had 
heard  it  last — save  in  his  dreams;  besides,  the  words 
put  the  match  to  a  desperate  train  of  thought. 

The  last  bars  of  the  song,  then,  came  as  a  shock  to 
the  audience  of  two  outside  in  the  road,  who  had  not 
realised  that  the  song  would  ever  stop: 

"  What  are  we  waiting  for,  you  and  I  ?  " 

A  pleading  look,  a  stifled  cry  ; 

"  Good-bye  for  ever  !  good-bye,  good-bye ! " 

The  last  notes  of  all  were  low,  and  the  singer's  best. 
They  were  charged  with  wild  grief;  they  seemed  to  end 
in  a  half-sob  of  anguish.  But  the  voice  had  caught  all 
the  passion  of  the  words,  and  something  more  besides. 
For  whom  was  this  passion? 

It  all  died  away.  The  world  outside  was  tamer  than 
before ;  the  sickle  moon  dipped  down  to  rest  below  the 
hill  beyond  the  village,  and  those  lanes  and  meadows 
knew  no  such  singing  any  more. 

The  tall  listener  in  the  road  still  gazed  at  the  holland 
blind  that  flapped  against  the  sash  of  the  open  window. 
It  was  all  the  sound  that  came  from  the  room  now. 
He  was  repeating  the  last  words  of  the  song,  and 
weighing  them. 

"  No,  no,"  he  was  thinking,  "  if  I  may  not  live  for 
269 


At  Large 


her,  what  else  is  there  to  live  for?  God,  let  me  die 
for  her!" 

A  glowing  red  spot  approached  him  through  the 
darkness  that  had  fallen  upon  the  land;  it  was  the 
Colonel's  cigarette.  It  brought  him  back  to  the  world 
as  it  was — his  world,  and  a  vile  one. 

"  I  was  taking  a  little  stroll,"  said  Colonel  Bristo. 
"Will  you  join  me?  I  think  Alice  will  sing  no  more 
to-night." 

Meanwhile,  in  the  room,  the  singer  had  risen.  She 
meant  to  quietly  put  away  the  music,  but  it  slipped 
from  her  fingers.  She  turned  with  wet  gentle  eyes  to 
one  who  was  speaking  to  her,  then  fled  at  his  words 
from  the  room. 

Yet  Dick  had  only  asked  her :  "  Will  you  never, 
never  forgive  me?" 


270 


XXV 

MELMERBRIDGE   CHURCH 

Dick  was  in  the  passage,  brushing  a  week's  dust 
from  his  hard  feh  hat;  he  was  going  to  church  this 
Sunday  morning;  half  the  party  were  going.  From  the 
gun-room  came  the  sound  of  a  pen  ghding  swiftly  over 
foolscap,  and  the  perfume  of  Mr,  Pinckney's  pipe;  from 
the  open  air  a  low  conversational  murmur,  kept  up  by 
Mrs.  Parish  and  Mr.  Miles  on  the  steps.  Dick,  though 
not  unconscious  of  these  sounds,  was  listening  for 
another — a  certain  footstep  on  the  stairs.  It  came  at 
last.  Alice  came  slowly  down;  Alice,  prayer-book  in 
hand,  in  the  daintiest  of  white  dresses  and  the  prettiest, 
simplest  straw  hat;  Alice  for  whom  Mrs.  Parish  and 
Miles  and  Dick  were  all  three  waiting. 

Her  step  was  less  light  than  it  should  have  been. 
The  slim  little  figure  positively  drooped.  Her  eyes, 
too,  seemed  large  and  bright,  and  dark  beyond  nature, 
though  that  may  have  been  partly  from  the  contrast 
with  a  face  so  pale.  The  girl's  altered  looks  had  caused 
anxiety  at  Teddington,  but  the  change  to  Yorkshire 
had  not  visibly  improved  them.  This  morning,  after 
a  night  made  even  more  restless  than  others  by  a  sud- 
den influx  of  hopes  and  fears,  this  was  painfully 
apparent. 

The  Colonel,  coming  in  from  outside  at  this  moment, 
271 


At  Large 


gazed  earnestly  at  his  daughter.  It  was  easily  seen 
that  he  w^s  already  worried  about  something;  but 
the  annoyance  in  his  expression  changed  quickly 
to  pain. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  walk  to  Melmerbridge 
Church?"  he  said  to  her. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am,"  she  answered. 

Her  tone  and  look  were  saucy,  in  spite  of  her  pallor; 
one  of  the  old  smiles  flickered  for  a  moment  upon  her 
lips. 

"  My  child,"  said  her  father,  more  in  surprise  than 
disapproval,  "  it  is  eight  miles  there  and  back!  " 

"  With  a  nice  long  rest  in  between,"  Alice  reminded 
him.  "I  thought  it  would  do  one  good,  the  walk; 
otherwise,  papa,  I  am  not  in  the  least  eager;  so  if  you 
think " 

"  Go,  my  dear,  of  course — go,  by  all  means,"  put  in 
Colonel  Bristo  hastily ;  "  unwonted  energy  like  this 
must  on  no  account  be  discouraged.  Yes,  yes,  you 
are  quite  right;  it  will  do  you  all  the  good  in  the 
world." 

As  he  spoke,  he  caught  sight  of  Miles  in  the  strong 
light  outside  the  door.  The  worried  look  returned  to 
the  Colonel's  eyes.  Anxiety  for  his  daughter  seemed 
to  fade  before  a  feeling  that  for  the  time  was  upper- 
most. He  watched  his  daughter  cross  over  to  the 
door,  and  Dick  put  on  his  hat  to  follow  her.  Then 
the  Colonel  stepped  forward  and  plucked  the  young 
man  by  the  arm. 

"  Dick,  I  want  you  to  stop  at  home  with  me.  I  want 
to  speak  with  you  particularly,  about  something  very 
important  indeed." 

272 


Melmerbridge  Church 

Dick  experienced  a  slight  shock  of  disappointment, 
succeeded  by  a  sense  of  foreboding.  He  fell  back  at 
once,  and  replaced  his  hat  on  the  stand. 

As  for  Alice,  she  felt  a  sudden  inclination  to  draw 
back,  herself.  But  that  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Mrs. 
Parish  and  Mr.  Miles  were  waiting  now  at  the  gate. 
Alice  went  out  and  told  them  that  Dick  was,  after  all, 
staying  behind  with  the  Colonel. 

"  Not  coming?  "  cried  Mrs.  Parish.  "  Why,  I  had 
promised  myself  a  long  chat  with  him ! "  which,  as  it 
happened,  though  Dick  was  no  favourite  of  hers,  was 
strictly  true.    "  Where  is  Mr.  Pinckney?  " 

"  Busy  writing  to  catch  the  post," 

"And  Dr.  Robson?" 

"  Cousin  Philip  has  gone  to  read  the  lessons  for  the 
Gateby  schoolmaster,  his  new  friend.  Had  we  not 
better  start  ?  " 

The  three  set  out,  walking  slowly  up  the  road,  for 
Mrs.  Parish  was  a  really  old  lady,  and  it  was  only  the 
truly  marvellous  proportion  of  sinew  and  bone  in  her 
composition,  combined  with  a  romantic  and  well-nigh 
fanatical  desire  to  serve  the  most  charming  of  men, 
that  fortified  her  to  attempt  so  formidable  a  walk. 

"  You  men  are  blind,"  she  had  told  her  idol,  among 
other  things  on  the  steps.  "  Where  a  word  would  end 
all,  you  will  not  speak." 

"  You  honestly  think  it  would  end  it  the  right  way?  " 
Miles  had  asked  her. 

"  I  do  not  think,  I  know,"  the  old  woman  had  said 
for  the  fiftieth  time. 

She  had  undertaken  to  give  him  his  opportunity  that 
morning.    With  four  in  the  party,  that  would  have  been 

273 


At  Large 


easy  enough;  with  three,  it  became  a  problem  soluble 
only  by  great  ingenuity. 

For  some  distance  beyond  the  shooting-box  the  road 
ascended  gently,  then  dipped  deep  down  into  a  hollow, 
with  a  beck  at  the  bottom  of  it,  and  a  bridge  and  a 
farmhouse  on  the  other  side.  The  hill  beyond  was 
really  steep,  and  from  its  crest  the  shooting-box — with 
red-roofed  Gateby  beyond  and  to  the  left  of  it — could 
be  seen  for  the  last  time.  But  when  they  had  toiled 
to  the  top  of  this  second  hill,  Mrs.  Parish  with  the 
kindly  assistance  of  the  attentive  Miles,  it  occurred  to 
none  of  them  to  look  round,  or  they  might  have  made 
out  the  Colonel  and  Dick  still  standing  on  the  steps,  and 
the  arm  of  the  former  raised  and  pointed  towards  them. 

"  It  is  about  that  man  there,"  the  Colonel  was  saying, 
"  that  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Dick  could  scarcely  suppress  an  exclamation.  He 
changed  colour.  His  face  filled  with  apprehension. 
What  was  coming  next?  What  was  suspected?  What 
discovered?  Until  these  words  the  Colonel  had  not 
spoken  since  the  church-goers  left,  and  his  manner  was 
strange. 

The  Colonel,  however,  was  scrutinising  the  young 
man. 

"  What  rivals  they  are !  "  he  was  thinking.  "  The 
one  starts  at  the  mere  name  of  the  other!  The  fact  is, 
Dick,"  he  said  aloud,  "  Miles  has  dealt  with  me  rather 
queerly  in  some  money  matters,  and —  What  on 
earth's  the  matter?  " 

The  strong  young  fellow  at  Colonel  Bristo's  side  was 
trembling  like  a  child ;  his  face  was  livid,  his  words  low 
and  hurried. 

274 


Melmerbridge  Church 

"  I  will  tell  you  in  a  moment,  sir.  Pray  go  on, 
Colonel  Bristo." 

"  Well,  the  fact  is  I  want  you  to  tell  me  if  you  know 
anything — of  your  own  knowledge,  mind — of  this 
station  of  Miles's  in  Queensland." 

"  Excuse  me :  I  can  only  answer  by  another  ques- 
tion.   Has  he  been  raising  money  on  his  station?" 

"  Do  you  mean  by  borrowing  from  me?" 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  I  do  mean." 

"  Well,  then,  he  has.  At  Teddington — I  don't  mind 
telling  you,  between  ourselves — I  lent  him  a  hundred 
pounds  when  a  remittance  he  expected  by  the  mail  did 
not  come.  After  that  I  found  out  that  he  had  an  agent 
in  town  all  the  while,  and  it  then  struck  me  as  rather 
odd  that  he  should  have  borrowed  of  me,  though  even 
then  I  did  not  think  much  of  it.  You  see,  the  man 
did  me  the  greatest  service  one  man  can  render  another, 
and  I  was  only  too  glad  of  the  opportunity  to  do  him 
a  good  turn  of  any  sort.  I  can  assure  you,  Dick,  at 
the  time  I  would  have  made  it  a  thousand — on  the 
spot — had  he  asked  it.  Besides,  I  have  always  liked 
Miles,  though  a  little  less,  I  must  confess,  since  he 
came  up  here.  But  last  night,  as  we  were  strolling 
about  together  outside,  he  suddenly  asked  me  for 
another  hundred;  and  the  story  with  which  he  sup- 
ported his  request  was  rambling,  if  not  absurd.  He 
said  that  his  partner  evidently  believed  him  to  be  on 
his  way  out  again,  and  therefore  still  omitted  to  send 
him  a  remittance ;  that  he  was  thus  once  more  '  stuck 
up '  for  cash ;  that  he  had  quarrelled  with  his  agent 
(whom  I  suggested  as  the  most  satisfactory  person  to 
apply  to),  and  withdrawn  the  agency.     Well,  I  have 

275 


At  Large 


written  out  the  cheque,  and  given  it  him  this  morning. 
His  gratitude  was  profuse,  and  seemed  genuine.  All 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  is  this:  Do  you  know  anything 
yourself  of  his  station,  his  partner,  or  his  agent?  " 

Dick  made  his  answer  with  a  pale,  set  face,  but  in  a 
tone  free  alike  from  tremor  or  hesitancy: 

"The  man  has  no  station,  no  agent,  no  partner!  " 
"  What?  "  cried  out  the  Colonel.    "  What  are  you 
saying?    You  must  not  make  statements  of  this  sort 
unless  you  are  sure  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt. 
I  asked  what  you  knew,  not  what  you  suspected." 
"  And  I  am  telling  you  only  what  I  know." 
"That  Miles  is  a  common  swindler?" 
"  That  his  name  is  not  Miles,  to  begin  with." 
"  Then  do  you  mean  to  say,"  the  Colonel  almost 
shouted,  "  that  you  have  known  all  this,  and  let  me  be 
duped  by  the  fellow  before  your  eyes?" 

"  I  never  suspected  what  you  have  told  me  now," 
said  Dick  warmly.  "  But  it  is  true  that  I  have  known 
for  some  weeks  who  and  what  this  man  is.  I  found 
him  out  at  Graysbrooke,  and  got  rid  of  him  for  you 
within  a  few  hours.  I  was  at  fault  not  to  give  him  in 
charge.  You  have  good  cause  to  blame  me — and  I 
sha'n't  want  for  blame  by  and  by! — but  if  you  will 
listen  to  me,  I  will  tell  you  all — yes,  all;  for  I  have 
protected  a  worse  scoundrel  than  I  thought:  I  owe 
him  not  another  moment's  silence." 

"  Come  in  here,  then,"  said  Colonel  Bristo,  sternly; 
"  for  I  confess  that  I  cannot  understand  you." 

Up  hill  and  down  dale  was  the  walk  to  Melmer- 
bridge;  but  the  ascents  really  were  a  shade  longer  and 

276 


Melmerbridge  Church 

steeper  than  the  descents,  and  did  not  only  seem  so 
to  the  ladies.  For  when  at  last  they  reached  the  long 
grey  stone  wall  at  the  edge  of  the  moor,  and  passed 
through  the  gate  into  the  midst  of  brown  heather, 
dotted  with  heads  of  gay  green  bracken,  they  were 
greeted  by  a  breeze — gentle  and  even  fitful,  but  inex- 
pressibly refreshing.  Now  below,  in  the  deep  lanes 
between  the  hedge-rows,  there  had  been  no  breeze  at 
all — for  the  morning  was  developing  into  hazy,  sleepy, 
stifling  heat,  and  the  sun  was  dim — and  the  flies  had 
been  most  pestilent.  Accordingly  they  all  drew  breath 
on  the  moor.  Mr.  Miles  uncovered  his  head,  and  let 
the  feeble  breeze  make  mild  sport  with  his  light  brown 
locks.  Then  he  lit  a  cigarette.  As  for  the  ladies,  they 
sat  down  for  a  moment's  rest;  and,  considering  that 
one  of  them  was  well  on  in  years,  and  the  other  com- 
bating with  a  sickness  that  was  gradually  tightening  its 
hold  upon  her,  they  were  walking  uncommonly  well. 
But  conversation  had  flagged  from  the  start,  nor  did 
the  magic  air  of  the  moorland  quicken  it. 

When  they  had  threaded  the  soft,  rutted  track  that 
girdled  the  heather  with  a  reddish-brown  belt,  when 
they  had  climbed  the  very  last  knoll,  they  found  them- 
selves on  the  extreme  edge  of  that  range  of  hills.  Far 
below  them,  to  the  right,  stretched  mile  upon  mile  of 
table-land,  studded  with  villages  and  woods,  divided 
by  the  hedges  into  countless  squares.  No  two  neigh- 
bours, among  these  squares,  were  filled  in  with  the 
same  colour;  some  were  brown,  some  yellow,  and  the 
rest  all  shades  of  green.  Far  ahead,  where  the  squares 
were  all  lost  and  their  colours  merged  in  one  dirty 
neutral  tint — far  ahead — at  the  horizon,  in  fact — hung 

277 


At  Large 


a  low,  perpetual  cloud,  like  a  sombre  pall  of  death. 
And  death  indeed  lay  under  it:  death  to  green  fields, 
sweet  flowers,  and  honest  blue  skies. 

They  viewed  all  this  from  a  spot  where  the  road  had 
been  carved  round  the  rough  brow  of  a  russet  cliflf. 
This  spot  was  the  loftiest  as  well  as  the  ruggedest  of 
the  whole  walk.  On  the  left  the  road  was  flanked  by 
the  ragged  wall  of  the  cliflf ;  on  the  right  it  was  provid- 
ed with  a  low  parapet,  over  which  one  might  gaze  forth 
upon  the  wide  table-land,  or  drop  stones  upon  the  tops 
of  the  tallest  fir-trees  in  the  wood  at  the  clifif's  base. 

Old  Mrs.  Parish  pointed  to  the  long  black  cloud  on 
the  horizon,  and  explained  that  it  was  formed  almost 
entirely  of  the  smoke  of  blast-furnaces,  and  was  the 
constant  canopy  of  a  great  town  that  they  could  not 
see,  because  the  town  was  hidden  in  perennial  smoke. 
More  than  this  she  might  have  said — about  the  mighty 
metals  that  were  disgorged  from  under  their  very  feet 
— about  the  rich  men  of  yonder  town  (old  Oliver,  for 
one),  not  forgetting  the  poor  men,  beggar-men,  and 
thieves — had  the  old  lady  not  perceived  that  Miles  was 
gazing  furtively  at  Alice,  and  Alice  gazing  thoughtfully 
into  space,  and  neither  of  them  listening  to  a  word. 

They  walked  on,  and  the  descending  road  became 
smoother,  but  tortuous;  and  trees  arched  over  it,  and 
the  view  was  hidden  until  they  stood  at  the  top  of 
straight,  steep  Melmerbridge  Bank,  and  the  good- 
sized  prosperous  village  lay  stretched  at  their  feet. 

One  long  row  of  houses  and  shops  on  the  left;  a 
long  straight  silvery  stream  for  the  right-hand  side  of 
the  village  street;  a  bridge  across  this  stream,  leading 
to  a  church  and  a  public-house  that  stood  side  by  side, 

278 


Melmerbridge  Church 

on  apparently  the  best  of  terms,  and  without  another 
near  neighbour  on  that  side  of  the  beck — such  was 
Melmerbridge  from  its  bank-top. 

As  they  crossed  a  white  wooden  bridge  at  the  foot 
of  the  bank  (for  the  beck  curved  and  twisted,  like  other 
becks,  except  where  it  did  its  duty  by  that  straight 
village  street),  a  simple,  modest  Sabbath  peal  rang  out 
upon  the  sultry  air. 

The  old  church  was  roomy,  twilit,  and  consequently 
cool.  Strong  light  never  found  its  way  inside  those 
old  stone  walls,  for  the  narrow  windows  were  pictorial, 
one  and  all.  Dusk  lingered  in  these  aisles  throughout 
the  longest  days ;  upon  them  day  broke  last  of  all ;  they 
met  nightfall  half-way. 

After  a  long,  hot,  tiring  walk  there  could  have  been 
no  more  grateful  retreat  than  this  church  of  All  Saints 
at  Melmerbridge.  The  senses  were  lulled  in  the  very 
porch,  nor  were  they  rudely  aroused  when  the  quiet 
peal  had  ended  and  the  quiet  service  began.  Every- 
thing was  subdued  and  inoffensive,  even  to  the  sermon: 
a  vigorous  discourse  from  the  dark  oak  pulpit  would 
have  grated  on  the  spirit,  like  loud  voices  in  a  death- 
chamber. 

As  for  Mrs.  Parish,  she  was  soon  sleeping  as  soundly 
and  reverently  as  the  oldest  parishioner.  Alice,  on  the 
other  hand,  gave  her  whole  mind  to  the  service,  and 
her  mind  filled  with  peace.  Her  sweet  clear  voice 
chimed  in  with  every  response  (at  which  the  parish 
clerk,  with  the  fine  old  crusted  dialect,  who  enjoyed  a 
monopoly  in  the  responses,  snorted  angrily  and  raised 
his  tones),  while  in  the  first  hymn  it  rose  so  high  and 
clear  that   the   young  curate  peered  over  his   book 

279 


At  Large 


through  the  dusk,  and  afterwards  lost  his  place  in  the 
Litany  through  peering  again. 

Miles,  for  his  part,  looked  about  him  with  a  pardon- 
able curiosity.  He  thought  that  he  might  have  been 
christened  in  some  church  as  an  infant;  he  had  certainly 
been  married  in  one  as  a  comparatively  respectable 
blackleg — but  that  was  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  recall 
to-day.  He  had  since  been  once  in  a  little  iron  Bush 
chapel,  on  a  professional  visit  with  his  merry  men,  the 
object  of  which  visit  was  attained  with  such  complete 
success  that  all  Australia  thrilled  with  indignation.  In 
London,  the  Bristos  had  insisted  on  taking  him  to  St. 
Paul's  and  the  Abbey.  This  was  the  full  extent  of  his 
previous  church-going.  He  was  interested  for  a  little 
while  in  looking  about  him.  His  interest  might  have 
lasted  to  the  Benediction  had  there  been  less  subjective 
food  for  thought,  or,  perhaps,  if  he  had  been  sitting 
there  alone. 

In  the  hush  and  the  dusk  of  this  strange  place,  and 
the  monotonous  declamation  of  phrases  that  conveyed 
no  meaning  to  him.  Miles  set  himself  deliberately  to 
think.  Wild  and  precarious  as  his  whole  life  had  been, 
he  felt  its  crisis  to  be  within  arm's  length  of  him  now  at 
last — he  joined  hands  with  it  here  in  this  peaceful 
Yorkshire  church.  Even  the  past  few  years  of  infamy 
and  hourly  risk  contained  no  situation  so  pregnant  with 
fate  as  the  present.  He  ran  over  in  his  mind  the  chain 
of  circumstances  that  had  led  up  to  this  crisis. 

The  train  of  thought  took  him  back  to  Queensland, 
where,  with  Nemesis  holding  him  by  the  throat  at  last, 
he  had  wrenched  himself  from  her  tightening  grip,  and 
escaped.     He  had  tumbled  upon  English  soil  with  a 

280 


Melmerbridge  Church 

fair  sum  of  money,  a  past  dead  and  buried,  a  future  of 
some  sort  before  him;  by  chance  he  had  tumbled  upon 
his  feet.  Chance,  and  that  genius  in  the  water  that 
had  crowned  his  escape  by  drowning  him  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world,  had  combined  at  once,  and  helped  him  to 
save  an  unknown  gentleman's  life.  Mother-wit  and 
the  laws  of  gratitude  enabled  him  to  dupe  the  man  he 
had  rescued,  become  his  close  friend,  live  upon  him, 
draw  upon  him,  extract  with  subtle  cunning  the  last 
farthing  of  salvage,  and  all  the  while  he  guessed — 
pretty  correctly — that  his  pursuers  were  arriving  to 
learn  his  death  and  take  ship  back  to  Australia. 

Thus  far  everything  had  worked  out  so  prettily  that 
it  seemed  worth  while  turning  thoroughly  honest  and 
beginning  this  second  life  on  entirely  different  lines 
from  the  old  one.  Then  he  fell  in  love  and  believed 
that  his  love  was  returned,  a  belief  that  was  not  fostered 
by  his  own  fancy  unaided;  now  more  than  ever  he 
desired  to  improve  on  the  past,  and  to  forget  all  ties 
and  obligations  belonging  to  the  past.  Edward  Ryan 
was  dead;  then  Edward  Ryan's  wife  was  a  widow; 
Miles  the  Australian  was  a  new  unit  in  humanity;  then 
why  should  not  Miles  the  Australian  marry? 

Up  to  this  point  he  could  look  back  on  every  step 
with  intense  satisfaction ;  but  here  his  reflections  took  a 
bitter  turn.  To  go  on  calmly  recoiling  step  after  step, 
beginning  with  the  month  of  July,  was  impossible :  he 
tried  it;  but  to  remember  that  night  in  the  park — to 
remember  subsequent  weeks  spent  in  scheming  and 
plotting,  in  rejecting  plot  after  plot  and  scheme  after 
scheme,  in  slowly  eating  his  heart  out  in  the  solitude 
of  a  London  lodging,  in  gradually  losing  all  taste  for 

281 


At  Large 


fresh  enterprise  and  all  nerve  for  carrying  it  out — ^to 
remember  all  this  was  to  pour  vitriol  on  the  spirit.  He 
would  remember  no  more;  he  would  shut  the  gate  on 
memory;  he  would  annihilate  thought;  he  would  make 
his  mind  a  blank.  Yet  he  was  powerless  to  do  any  of 
these  things. 

In  his  helplessness  he  looked  down  on  the  white 
figure  at  his  side.  The  second  hymn  was  being  sung. 
He  had  stood,  and  sat,  and  knelt  or  leant  forward  with 
the  rest,  by  mere  mechanical  impulse.  He  was  even 
holding  the  book  which  she  held  without  knowing  it. 
When  he  realised  this,  his  hand  shook  so  much  that 
the  hymn-book  was  almost  jerked  from  his  fingers. 
At  this  she  looked  up,  and  caught  his  eyes  bent  down 
upon  her. 

Now  Miles  was  at  the  end  of  the  pew,  next  the  wall, 
and  in  shadow.  Alice  noticed  nothing  in  his  expres- 
sion, and  went  on  singing  without  pause  or  break.  But 
either  her  face,  as  she  raised  it,  came  in  direct  line 
with  the  skirt  of  some  saint,  in  the  window  above 
Miles,  and  the  sun,  or  else  the  sun  chose  that  moment 
for  a  farewell  gleam;  in  any  case,  the  girl's  pale  face 
was  instantly  flooded  with  a  rich,  warm,  crimson  glow. 
Miles  looked  down,  and  this  warm  glow  caught  in  his 
heart  like  a  tongue  of  live  flame. 

The  hymn  was  over;  they  sank  down  side  by  side: 
she  to  listen  to  the  sermon,  no  matter  its  calibre — he 
to  his  thoughts,  no  matter  their  madness. 

What  were  his  thoughts?  Not  reflections  now.  Not 
hesitancy,  his  new  unaccountable  failing;  not  nervous 
doubt,  his  new  humiliating  enemy.  No,  his  thoughts 
were  of  the  old  kind,  but  worse.    He  was  contemplat- 

282 


Melmerbridge  Church 

ing  a  crime.  He  was  contemplating  the  worst  crime 
of  his  whole  career.  The  plain  English  of  his  thoughts 
was  this: 

"  I  believe  that  she  likes  me.  I  see  that  she  is,  in  the 
catch  phrase,  '  pining.'  I  am  told  that  it  is  for  me. 
Very  good.  If  that  is  the  case  she  will  believe  what 
I  tell  her,  and  do  what  I  ask  her.  I  have  some  power 
of  persuasion.  I  am  not  without  invention.  I  shall 
represent  to  her  all  kinds  of  reasons  for  precipitancy 
and  secrecy — temporary  secrecy.  In  a  word,  she  shall 
fly  with  me!  Well,  that  is  bad  enough;  but  there  my 
badness  ends.  I  will  live  without  crime  for  her  sake; 
I  will  retrieve  what  I  can  of  the  past.  Henceforth  my 
life  is  of  her,  with  her — above  all,  it  is  for  her.  She 
need  never  know  how  I  have  wronged  her,  therefore 
she  will  not  be  wronged." 

He  looked  at  the  face  beside  him;  it  was  white  as 
alabaster.  Alice  was  straining  her  eyes  towards  some 
object  that  filled  them  with  sadness  and  sympathy.  He 
followed  the  direction  of  her  gaze ;  and  he  saw  an  old, 
old  man — a  man  who  would  soon  come  to  church  for 
the  last  time,  and  remain  outside  the  walls,  under  the 
grass — who  was  gazing  with  pathetic  wistfulness  at  the 
preacher,  and,  with  wrinkled  hand  raised  to  the  ear, 
making  the  most  and  the  best  of  every  well-worn 
epithet  and  perfunctory  stock  phrase.  That  was  all. 
Miles  brought  back  his  glance  to  the  white  profile  at 
his  side,  and  found  it  changed  in  this  instant  of  time: 
the  long  eyelashes  were  studded  with  crystal  tears! 

How  sad  she  looked — how  thin  and  ill!  Would  she 
look  like  this  afterwards?  Would  tears  often  fill  her 
eyes  in  the  time  to  come  ? 

283 


At  Large 


Miles  shut  his  eyes,  and  again  exerted  might  and 
main  to  blot  out  thought.  But  he  could  not  do  it;  and 
half  his  confidence  was  gone  at  the  moment  when  he 
most  needed  it  all.  He  knew  it,  and  shuddered.  A 
thought  that  had  haunted  him  of  late  crossed  his  mind 
for  the  hundredth  time:  he  was  an  altered  man  not 
only  in  pretence  but  in  reality;  his  nerve  and  coolness 
had  deserted  him! 

The  sermon  was  over,  and  the  congregation  awake. 
Miles  stood  up  with  the  rest,  and  took  between  thumb 
and  finger  his  side  of  the  little  hymn  book  held  out  to 
him.  He  heartily  wished  it  all  over.  In  his  present 
unfortunate  state  of  mind  another  hymn  was  another 
ordeal:  her  voice,  when  she  sang,  put  such  weak 
thoughts  into  his  head.  Was  he  not  a  fool  and  a 
madman  to  think  at  all  of  a  woman  who  unmanned 
him  so?  Nay,  hush!  The  hymn  was  begun.  She  was 
singing  it  with  her  whole  heart,  the  little  head  thrown 
backward,  the  little  white  face  turned  upward.  She 
was  singing;  he  could  hear  nothing  else.  She  was 
singing;  would  she  sing  afterwards?  She  was  singing 
from  the  depths  of  her  tired  soul.  Would  she  ever 
sing  like  this  again?  Would  he  ever  hear  her  voice 
again.     Hush!     This  might  be  the  last  time! 

Colonel  Bristo  was  back  on  the  steps,  gazing  under 
his  thin,  hollowed  hand  up  the  road.  He  looked 
anxious,  and  indignant,  and  determined — but  old  and 
careworn. 

"  What  a  time  they  are !  "  said  Dick,  pointing  to  the 
crest  of  the  second  hill,  where  the  brown  road  met  the 
silver  sky.    Next  moment  he  would  have  recalled  his 

284 


Melmerbridge   Church 

words,  for  two  figures,  not  three,  stood  out  black 
against  the  sky.  They  were  only  in  sight  for  an  instant, 
but  during  that  instant  they  were  hand  in  hand! 

The  two  men  on  the  steps  waited  without  a  word  for 
many  minutes.  Neither  could  bring  himself  to  speak 
— perhaps  each  hoped  that  the  other  had  not  seen 
everything.  Besides,  one  was  the  father  of  the  girl, 
and  the  other — her  jilted  lover.  More  than  once  the 
father  shivered,  and  his  fingers  twitched  the  whole 
time.  Simultaneously  they  both  started  in  surprise; 
for  all  at  once  Alice  appeared  over  the  brow  of  the 
nearest  hill,  coming  swiftly  towards  them — alone. 

"Thank  God!"  murmured  the  Colonel,  forgetting 
Dick's  presence.  "  He  has  asked  her  to  marry  him, 
and  she  has  refused.    The  villain!  " 

"  Then,  if  you  are  right,"  cried  Dick  with  sudden 
intensity,  "  a  million  times  blacker  villain  he." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Mean?  I  mean — but  there  is  no  need  to  tell  you 
now." 

"  You  may  as  well  tell  me  everything." 

"  Then  I  mean  that  he  is  married  already." 


285 


XXVI 

AT   BAY 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Parish?  "  demanded  Colonel  Bristo, 
the  moment  his  daughter  reached  the  gate.  In  spite 
of  a  gallant  effort  to  be  calm  before  Alice,  his  voice 
quivered, 

"  The  walk  was  too  much  for  her."  The  girl's  face 
was  flushed,  and  her  tones  faint,  "  She  said  she 
couldn't  walk  back  were  it  ever  so.  She  spoke  to 
Mrs.  Commyns — who  was  called  here,  you  know — and 
went  to  the  Rectory.  She  wants  us  to  send  the  pony- 
trap  if " 

"Where  is  Mr,  Miles?"  Alice's  father  interrupted 
her. 

"  He  is  following." 

She  passed  quickly  by  them  into  the  house.  Her 
face  was  full  of  trouble.  Traces  of  tears  were  visible 
under  her  eyes.  They  heard  her  hurrying  upstairs. 
Neither  of  them  spoke  a  word,  Dick  had  his  back 
turned;  he  was  watching  the  road. 

The  figure  of  Miles  appeared  on  the  nearest  knoll. 
He  walked  slowly  down  the  bank,  his  head  bent,  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  Dick  turned  to  Colonel 
Bristo, 

"  You  had  better  leave  me  to  speak  to  him,"  he  said. 
"  I  will  settle  with  him  on  the  spot." 

286 


At  Bay 


"  It  ought  to  come  from  me,"  said  the  Colonel 
doubtfully;  "and  yet " 

The  old  man  paused.  Dick  looked  at  him  with  some 
anxiety. 

"  You  had  really  better  leave  him  to  me,  sir,"  he 
repeated.  "  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  am  used  to  treating 
with  him.  There  had  better  be  no  third  party  to  our 
last  parley.  And  the  fewer  words  the  better,  on  Alice's 
account;  she  need  know  nothing.  Besides,  I  know 
your  intentions " 

"  Yes,  yes;  that  for  my  part  I  will  take  no  steps,  not 
even  to  get  back  my  money;  that  he  may  go  to-day 
instead  of  to-morrow,  and  leave  the  country — we  will 
not  stop  him.  Of  course,  he  will  be  only  too  glad  to 
get  off!  Dick,  I  care  nothing  about  the  paltry  pounds 
he  has  got  out  of  me ;  he  is  welcome  to  them ;  I  do  not 
grudge  him  them,  because  of  the  service  he  did  me 
■ — yet  if  I  saw  him  now,  I  feel  that  I  should  forget 
to  count  that  service.  And  you  are  right  about  Alice. 
Speak  quietly,  and  get  rid  of  him  quickly.  I  will  not 
see  him  unless  I  am  obUged;  at  least,  I  will  first  hear 
from  the  dining-room  what  he  has  to  say  to  you." 

A  moment  later  the  Colonel  was  at  his  post  in  the 
dining-room.  His  retreat  from  the  steps,  which  was 
really  characteristic  of  the  man,  is  open  to  miscon- 
struction. He  feared  nothing  worse  than  an  unpleas- 
antness— a  disagreeable  scene;  and  he  avoided  unpleas- 
antnesses and  disagreeables  systematically  through 
life.  That  was  the  man's  weakness.  Now  if  Dick  had 
led  him  to  suppose  that  Miles  would  do  anything  but 
take  his  conge  philosophically  and  go,  the  Colonel 
would  have  filled  the  breach  bristling  with  war.    But 

287 


At  Large 


from  Dick's  account  of  his  previous  relations  with  the 
impostor,  he  expected  that  Miles  would  be  sent  to  the 
right-about  with  ease,  and  Colonel  Bristo  shrank  from 
doing  this  personally. 

The  dining-room  windows  were  wide  open,  but  the 
brown  holland  blinds  were  drawn.  Colonel  Bristo  did 
not  raise  them.  He  sat  down  to  listen  without  looking. 
Almost  immediately  he  heard  a  sharp  click  from  the 
latch  of  the  wicket-gate;  then  a  louder  click  accom- 
panied by  a  thud  of  timbers.  Whoever  had  opened 
the  gate  had  passed  through  and  swung  it  to.  The 
next  sound  that  Colonel  Bristo  heard  was  the  quiet, 
business-like  voice  of  young  Edmonstone: 

"Stop!  I  have  a  word  for  you  from  the  Colonel. 
Stop  where  you  are!  He  does  not  want  you  to  come 
in." 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  has  happened?" 
The  tones  were  apathetic — those  of  a  man  who  has 
heard  his  doom  already,  to  whom  nothing  else  can 
matter  much. 

"  He  simply  does  not  want  you  inside  his  house 
again.  He  is  sending  your  things  down  to  the  inn, 
where  he  hopes  you  will  stay  until  you  leave  the  place 
according  to  your  plans.  Ryan,"  added  Edmonstone 
in  an  altered  manner, "  you  understand  me  by  this  time? 
Then  you  may  take  my  word  for  it  that  you  are  as 
safe  as  you  were  yesterday;  though  you  don't  deserve 
it.     Only  go  at  once." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  Colonel  fidgeted  in  his 
chair. 

"  So,  my  kind,  generous,  merciful  friend  could  not 
keep  his  word  one  day  longer!  " 

288 


At  Bay 


Miles's  voice  was  so  completely  changed  that  the 
Colonel  involuntarily  grasped  the  blind-cord;  for  now 
it  was  the  voice  of  an  insolent,  polished  villain. 

"  If  I  had  known  before,"  Dick  answered  him  coolly, 
"  what  I  have  found  out  this  morning,  you  might 
have  cried  for  quarter  until  you  were  hoarse." 

"  May  I  ask  what  you  have  learnt  this  morning?  " 

"  Your  frauds  on  the  man  who  befriended  you." 

"  My  obligations  to  the  man  whose  life  I  saved. 
Your  way  of  putting  it  is  prejudiced.  Of  course  you 
gave  him  your  version  as  to  who  I  am?" 

"  My  version !  "  exclaimed  Edmonstone  scornfully. 
"  I  told  him  that  you  and  the  bushranger  Sundown 
are  one." 

Again  Miles  swiftly  changed  his  key;  but  it  was  his 
words  that  were  startling  now. 

"  You  are  mad!  "  he  said,  pityingly — "  you  are  mad; 
and  I  have  known  it  for  weeks.  Your  last  words  put 
your  delusion  in  a  nutshell.  You  have  not  a  proof  to 
bless  yourself  with.  You  are  a  madman  on  one  point; 
and  here  comes  the  man  that  knows  it  as  well  as  I 
do!" 

In  a  whirl  of  surprise  and  amazement,  not  knowing 
for  the  moment  whom  or  what  to  believe,  the  Colonel 
pulled  up  the  blind  and  leant  through  the  window.  The 
Australian  stood  facing  his  accuser  with  an  impudent 
smile  of  triumph.  For  once  he  stood  revealed  as  he 
was — for  once  he  looked  every  inch  the  finished 
scoundrel.  If  the  Colonel  had  wavered  for  an  instant 
before  drawing  up  the  blind,  he  wavered  no  more  after 
the  first  glimpse  of  the  Australian's  face.  He  settled 
in  his  mind  at  that  instant  which  was  the  liar  of  those 

289 


At  Large 


two  men.  Yet  something  fascinated  him.  He  was 
compelled  to  listen. 

Robson  was  coming  in  at  the  gate. 

"  You  are  the  very  man  we  want,"  laughed  Miles, 
turning  towards  him.  "  Now  pull  yourself  together, 
Doctor.  Do  you  call  our  friend,  Mr.  Edmonstone  here, 
sane  or  not?" 

"  You  said  that  he  was  not,"  said  Robson,  looking 
from  Edmonstone  to  Miles. 

"And  you  agreed  with  me?" 

"  I  said  I  thought " 

"You  said  you  thought!  Well,  never  mind;  I  call 
him  sane — practically;  only  under  a  delusion.  But 
we  will  test  him.  You  charge  me  with  being  a  certain 
Australian  bushranger,  Mr.  Edmonstone.  Of  course 
you  have  some  evidence?  " 

An  awkward  sensation  came  over  Dick:  a  conscious- 
ness that  he  had  committed  a  mistake,  and  a  mistake 
that  was  giving  the  enemy  a  momentary  advantage. 
He  choked  with  rage  and  indignation:  but  for  the 
moment  he  could  find  no  words.  Evidence  ?  He  had 
the  evidence  of  his  senses;  but  it  was  true  that  he  had 
no  corroborative  evidence  at  hand. 

The  bushranger's  eyes  glittered  with  a  reckless  light. 
He  knew  that  the  sides  were  too  uneven  to  play  this 
game  long.  He  felt  that  he  was  a  free  man  if  he  quietly 
accepted  fate  as  he  had  accepted  it  before  at  this  man's 
hands.  The  odds  were  overwhelming;  but  he  was 
seized  with  a  wild  desire  to  turn  and  face  them;  to 
turn  upon  his  contemptible  foe  and  treat  him  as  he 
should  have  treated  him  in  the  beginning.  It  might 
cost  him  his  liberty — his  life — but  it  was  worth  it! 

290 


At  Bay 


The  old  devilry  had  sprung  back  into  being  within 
him.  He  was  desperate — more  desperate,  this  half- 
hour,  than  ever  in  the  whole  course  of  his  desperate 
existence.  His  life  had  seemed  worth  having  during 
the  past  weeks  of  his  cowardice;  now  it  was  valueless 
— more  valueless  than  it  had  been  before.  He  was 
at  bay,  and  he  realised  it.  His  brain  was  ablaze.  He 
had  played  the  docile  Miles  too  long.  Wait  a  moment, 
and  he  would  give  them  one  taste  of  the  old  Sundown ! 

"  At  least,"  he  sneered  in  a  low,  suppressed  voice, 
"  you  have  someone  behind  you  with  a  warrant?  No? 
Nothing  but  your  bare  word  and  the  dim  recollection 
of  years  ago?  That,  my  friend,  seems  hardly  enough. 
Ah,  Colonel,  I'm  glad  you  are  there.  Is  there  any 
truth  in  this  message  that  has  been  given  me,  that  you 
have  had  enough  of  me?  " 

"  I  wish  you  to  go,"  said  Colonel  Bristo,  sternly. 
"  I  wash  my  hands  of  you.  Why  refuse  a  chance  of 
escape? " 

"  What !  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  believe  this 
maniac's  cock-and-bull  yarn  about  me?"  He  pointed 
jauntily  at  Dick  with  his  forefinger.  But  the  hand 
lowered,  until  the  forefinger  covered  the  corner  of 
white  handkerchief  peeping  from  Edmonstone's  breast- 
pocket. For  a  moment  Miles  seemed  to  be  making 
some  mental  calculation;  then  his  hand  dropped,  and 
trifled  with  his  watch-chain. 

"  I  believe  every  word  that  he  has  told  me,"  declared 
the  Colonel  solemnly.  "  As  to  warrants,  they  are  not 
wanted  where  there  is  to  be  no  arrest.  We  are  not 
going  to  lay  hands  on  you.     Then  go!" 

"  Go!  "  echoed  Edmonstone  hoarsely.  "  And  I  wish 
291 


At  Large 


to  God  I  had  done  my  duty  the  night  I  found  you  out! 
You  would  have  been  in  proper  hands  long  before 
this." 

"  Suppose  I  refuse  to  go?  Suppose  I  stay  and  insist 
on  evidence  being  brought  against  me?  "  said  Miles 
to  the  Colonel,  Then  turning  to  Dick  with  fiery, 
blood-shot  eyes,  he  cried:  "Suppose,  since  there  is 
no  evidence  at  all,  I  shoot  the  inventor  of  all  these 
lies?" 

The  hand  was  raised  sharply  from  the  watch-chain 
and  dived  into  an  inner  pocket.  That  moment  might 
have  been  Dick  Edmonstone's  last  on  earth,  had  not  a 
white  fluttering  skirt  appeared  in  the  passage  behind 
him. 

The  hand  of  Miles  dropped  nervelessly. 

Colonel  Bristo  heard  in  the  passage  the  light  quick 
steps  and  rustling  dress,  and  ran  to  the  door.  At  the 
same  instant  Pinckney  jumped  up  from  his  writing  to 
see  what  was  the  matter.  They  met  in  the  passage, 
and  followed  Alice  to  the  steps.  Her  father  seized  her 
hand,  to  draw  her  back,  but  she  snatched  it  from  his 
grasp.  Her  hand  was  icy  cold.  Her  face  was  white 
as  death — as  immovable — as  passionless.  She  stood 
on  the  steps,  and  glanced  from  Edmonstone  at  her  side 
to  Miles  on  the  path  below.  On  Miles  her  calm  glance 
rested. 

"  You  seem  to  forget!  "  she  said  in  a  hard  voice  that 
seemed  to  come  from  far  away.  "  You  are  forgetting 
what  you  said  to  me  a  few  minutes  ago,  on  the  road. 
I  understand  your  meaning  better  now  than  I  did  then. 
Yes,  it  is  true;  you  know  it  is  true:  you  are  what  he 
says  you  are! " 

292 


At  Bay 


Miles  watched  her  like  one  petrified. 

She  turned  to  Dick  at  her  side.  And  now  a  sudden 
flush  suffused  her  pallid  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  dilated. 

"  It  is  you,"  she  cried  impetuously,  "  you  that  we 
have  to  thank  for  this!  You  that' have  brought  all  this 
upon  us,  you  that  allowed  us  to  be  preyed  upon  by  a 
villain — screened  him,  helped  him  in  his  deceit,  plotted 
with  him!  Being  what  he  was,  it  was  in  his  nature 
to  cheat  us.  I  forgive  him,  and  pity  him.  But  you 
I  shall  never  forgive!  Go,  Mr.  Miles.  Whatever  and 
whoever  you  are,  go  as  you  are  asked.  And  go  you 
too — true  friend — brave  gentleman!  Go,  both  of  you. 
Let  us  never  see  you  again.  Yet  no!  Stay — stay,  all 
of  you  "  (her  face  was  changing,  her  words  were  grow- 
ing faint) — "  and  hear  what  it  was — he  said — to  me — 
and  my  answer,  which  is  my  answer  still!  Stay — one 
moment — and  hear " 

Her  words  ceased  altogether.  Without  a  cry  or  a 
moan  she  sank  senseless  in  her  father's  arms. 

Philip  Robson  rushed  forward.  They  stretched  her 
on  the  cold  stone.  They  tore  open  the  collar  round 
her  neck,  breaking  the  pretty  brooch.  They  put 
brandy  to  her  lips,  and  salts  to  her  nostrils,  and  water 
upon  her  brow.  Minutes  passed,  and  there  was  no 
sign,  no  glimmer  of  returning  life. 

When  Alice  fell,  Miles  took  one  step  forward,  but 
no  more.  He  stood  there,  leaning  forward,  unable  to 
remove  his  eyes  from  the  white  lifeless  face,  scarcely 
daring  to  breathe. 

There  was  no  noise,  no  single  word!  The  doctor 
(to  his  credit  be  it  remembered)  was  trying  all  that 
he  knew,  quickly  and  quietly.    The  Colonel  said  not 

293 


At  Large 


a  word,  but  silently  obeyed  his  nephew,  and  chafed 
the  chill  hands.  Edmonstone  fanned  her  face  gently. 
Pinckney  had  disappeared  from  the  group. 

Robson  suddenly  looked  up  and  broke  the  silence. 

"  Where  is  the  nearest  doctor?  " 

"  Melmerbridge,"  murmured  someone. 

"  He  should  be  fetched  at  once.  We  want  experi- 
ence here.    This  is  no  ordinary  faint." 

Before  the  doctor  had  finished  speaking,  Miles 
wheeled  round  and  darted  to  the  gate.  And  there  he 
found  himself  confronted  by  a  short,  slight,  resolute 
opponent. 

"  You  sha'n't  escape,"  said  Pinckney  through  his 
teeth,  "  just  because  the  others  can't  watch  you!  You 
villain!  " 

Pinckney  had  heard  only  the  end  of  what  had  passed 
on  the  steps,  but  that  was  enough  to  assure  him  that 
Miles  had  been  unmasked  as  a  criminal.  Of  course 
he  would  take  the  opportunity  of  all  being  preoccupied 
to  escape,  and  did;  and  David  faced  Goliath  in  the 
gateway. 

In  lesser  circumstances  Miles  would  have  laughed, 
and  perhaps  tossed  his  little  enemy  into  the  ditch. 
But  now  he  whipped  out  his  revolver — quicker  than 
thought — and  presented  it  with  such  swift,  practised 
precision  that  you  would  have  thought  there  had  been 
no  hiatus  in  his  career  as  bushranger.  And  he  looked 
the  part  at  that  instant! 

Pinckney  quailed,  and  gave  way. 

The  next  moment.  Miles  was  rushing  headlong  up 
the  hill. 

On  the  crest  of  the  second  hill,  above  the  beck  and 
294 


At  Bay 


the  bridge,  he  stopped  to  look  round.  The  people  on 
the  steps  were  moving.  Their  number  had  increased. 
He  could  distinguish  a  servant-maid  holding  her  apron 
to  her  eyes.  They  were  moving  slowly;  they  were 
carrying  something  into  the  house — something  in  a 
white  covering  that  hung  heavily  as  a  cerement  in  the 
heavy  air. 


295 


XXVII 

.  THE   FATAL   TRESS 

Was  she  dead? 

The  question  was  thundered  out  in  the  sound  of  the 
runner's  own  steps  on  the  flinty  places,  and  echoed  by 
the  stones  that  rolled  away  from  under  his  feet.  The 
thought  throbbed  in  his  brain,  the  unspoken  words 
sang  in  his  ears:  Was  she  dead? 

The  face  of  Alice  was  before  Ryan  as  he  ran:  the 
pale,  delicate  face  of  this  last  week,  not  the  face  of 
old  days.  The  early  days  of  summer  were  old  days, 
though  it  was  summer  still.  June  by  the  Thames  was 
buried  deeper  in  the  past  than  last  year  in  Australia, 
though  it  was  but  August  now.  What  had  come  over 
the  girl  in  these  few  weeks?  What  had  changed  and 
saddened  her?  What  made  her  droop  like  a  trampled 
flower?    What  was  the  matter — was  it  the  heart? 

The  heart!  Suppose  it  was  the  heart.  Suppose  the 
worst.  Suppose  this  shock  had  killed  her.  Suppose 
he — the  criminal,  the  outlaw,  the  wretch  unfit  to  look 
upon  good  women — had  murdered  this  sweet,  cruel, 
wayward,  winsome  girl!  Even  so,  he  must  still  push 
on  and  bring  her  aid.  If  that  aid  came  too  late,  then 
let  his  own  black  life  come  to  a  swift  and  miserable 
end.  His  life  for  hers ;  the  scales  of  justice  demanded 
it. 

296 


The  Fatal  Tress 

The  afternoon  was  dull  but  not  dusky.  The  clouds 
were  so  high  and  motionless  that  it  seemed  as  if  there 
were  no  clouds,  but  one  wide  vault  of  tarnished  silver. 
To  point  to  that  part  of  this  canopy  that  hid  the  sun 
would  have  been  guesswork. 

Between  the  tall  hedges  the  air  was  heavier  than  in 
the  morning;  the  flies  and  midges  swarmed  in  myriads. 
Even  on  the  moor  there  was  now  no  breath  of  wind. 
The  heather  looked  lifeless,  colourless ;  the  green  fronds 
peeping  between  had  lost  their  sparkle ;  the  red-brown 
of  the  undulating  belt  of  road  was  the  brightest  tint  in 
the  landscape  up  there. 

When  Ryan  was  half-way  across  the  moor,  rain 
began  to  fall.  He  threw  back  his  head  as  he  ran,  and 
the  raindrops  cooled  his  heated  face.  His  hat  had  long 
ago  been  jerked  off,  and  his  hair  lay  plastered  by  per- 
spiration to  the  scalp.  The  man's  whole  frame  was  on 
fire  from  his  exertions.  The  breath  came  hard  through 
his  clenched  teeth.  His  blue  eyes  were  filled  with  a 
wild  despair.  Since  the  last  backward  look,  that 
showed  him  the  solemn  group  on  the  steps,  he  had 
thundered  on  without  an  instant's  pause;  and  the  time 
lost  in  toiling  up  the  banks  was  made  up  by  dashing 
headlong  down  the  other  side. 

Now  he  was  climbing  the  steep  ascent  that  culmi- 
nated at  the  spot  where  the  road  was  curved  round  the 
face  of  the  cHflf,  and  protected  on  the  right  by  the  low 
stone  parapet.  Once  at  the  top,  he  would  soon  be  in 
Melmerbridge,  for  the  remainder  of  the  road  was 
down-hill. 

The  wall  of  cliff  on  the  left  was  jagged  and  perpen- 
dicular,  and  of  the    same   russet   tint   as   the   road. 

297 


At  Large 


Detached  fragments  of  the  rock  rested  in  the  angle 
formed  by  its  base  and  the  rough-hewn  road.  Among 
these  boulders  was  an  object  that  attracted  Ryan's 
curiosity  as  he  chmbed  up  from  below:  it  was  so  like 
a  boulder  in  rigidity  and  colour,  and  in  outline  so 
like  a  man.  Ryan  saw  the  outline  alter:  of  course  it 
was  a  man,  and  he  was  crouching  with  his  back  to 
the  rock  for  shelter  from  the  rain.  Suddenly  the  man 
rose,  and  staggered  into  the  middle  of  the  pass,  between 
rocky  wall  and  stone  parapet,  while  Ryan  was  still  some 
yards  below.    It  was  Pound. 

Ryan  had  seen  him  in  the  street  at  Melmerbridge, 
in  coming  from  church.  Pound  had  reeled  out  of  a 
public-house  and  caught  him  by  the  arm.  Ryan  had 
shaken  him  oflf  with  a  whispered  promise  to  meet  him 
in  the  evening  as  arranged;  and  had  explained  the 
occurrence  to  his  companion  by  some  ready  lie. 

So  Pound  was  on  his  way  back  to  Gateby,  drunk. 
This  was  evident  from  his  attitude  as  he  stood  barring 
the  pass,  and  from  the  hoarse  peal  of  laughter  that 
echoed  round  the  cliflf,  and  from  the  tones  of  blusterous 
banter  with  which  he  greeted  his  quondam  leader. 

"  Welcome !  Glad  to  see  ye !  But  who'd  ha'  thought 
you'd  be  better  than  your  word?  Better,  I  say — you're 
better  than  your  blessed  word!  " 

"  Stand  clear!  "  shouted  Ryan,  twenty  paces  below. 

Pound  leered  down  upon  him  like  a  satyr.  His 
massive  arms  were  tightly  folded  across  his  bulky  chest. 
His  smooth  face  became  horrible  as  he  stood  looking 
down  and  leering.  His  answer  to  Ryan  was  hissed 
savagely  through  his  teeth: 

"  Stand  clear  be !    I  want  my  money.    I'll  have 

298 


The  Fatal  Tress 

my  whack  o'  the  swag,  and  have  it  now!    D'ye  hear? 
Now!" 

"  I  have  nothing  about  me,"  Ryan  answered.  "  You 
drunken  fool,  stand  clear !  " 

The  twenty  paces  between  them  were  reduced  to 
ten. 

"  Nothing  about  you!  "  jeered  Pound,  spitting  upon 
the  ground.  "  Ay,  I  know — you  carry  your  nothing 
round  your  neck,  old  man!  And  I'll  have  my  share 
of  it  now  or  never!" 

They  were  almost  at  arm's  length  now. 

"  Never,  then!  "  cried  Ryan,  half  drawing  his  re- 
volver. 

In  a  flash  Pound's  arm  unfolded,  and  his  right  arm 
shot  out  straight  from  the  shoulder.  There  followed 
a  streak  of  fire  and  a  loud  report.  Thin  clouds  of  white 
smoke  hung  in  the  motionless  air.  From  their  midst 
came  a  deep  groan  and  the  thud  of  a  dead  weight 
falling.  And  Pound  was  left  standing  alone,  a  smoking 
pistol  in  his  hand.  For  a  minute  he  stood  as  still  as 
Ryan  lay. 

"  A  shake  longer,"  he  muttered  at  length,  "  and  I'd 
have  been  there  and  you  here.  As  it  is — as  it  is, 
1  think  you're  cooked  at  last,  skipper ! " 

He  put  the  revolver  back  in  his  pocket,  and  stood 
contemplating  his  work.  The  sight  completely  sobered 
him.  To  a  certain  degree  it  frightened  him  as  well. 
Of  the  other  sensations,  such  as  might  ensue  upon  a 
first  murder,  Jem  Pound  experienced  simply  none. 
Even  his  fear  was  not  acute,  for  it  was  promptly  swal- 
lowed by  cupidity. 

"  Now  for  them  notes!" 
299 


At  Large 


He  knelt  down  beside  his  victim,  eyeing  him  cau- 
tiously. The  fallen  man  lay  stretched  across  the  road, 
on  his  back.  He  had  torn  open  his  coat  and  waistcoat 
while  running,  and  the  white  shirt  was  darkened  with 
a  stain  that  increased  in  area  every  instant.  Pound 
wondered  whether  he  had  hit  the  heart.  The  upturned 
face,  with  closed  eyelids  and  mouth  slightly  open,  was 
slimy  and  wet  with  perspiration  and  the  soft  August 
rain.  By  holding  the  back  of  his  hand  half-an-inch 
above  the  mouth,  Pound  satisfied  himself  that  Ryan 
was  still  breathing — "  his  last,"  thought  Jem  Pound, 
without  any  extravagant  regret.  Blood  was  flowing 
from  a  scalp-wound  at  the  back  of  the  head,  received 
in  falling;  but  this  escaped  the  murderer's  notice. 
What  he  next  observed  was  that  the  arms  lay  straight 
down  the  sides,  and  that  the  right  hand  grasped  a  re- 
volver. At  sight  of  this,  Jem  Pound  leapt  to  his  feet 
with  an  excited  exclamation. 

He  drew  forth  again  his  own  revolver,  to  assure 
himself  that  he  was  not  mistaken.  No,  he  was  not. 
The  pistols  were  an  original  brace,  and  alike  in  every 
particular.  The  smooth,  heavy  face  of  the  murderer 
lit  up  with  infernal  exultation.  He  pointed  with  a 
finger  that  trembled  now — from  sheer  excitement — 
to  the  pistol  in  the  lifeless  hand,  then  tapped  the  barrel 
of  his  own  significantly. 

"Suicide!"  he  whispered.  "Suicide — suicide — 
suicide!"  He  reiterated  the  word  until  he  thought 
that  he  appreciated  its  full  import.  Then  he  knelt  down 
and  leant  over  the  prostrate  Ryan,  with  the  confident 
air  of  a  lucky  man  on  the  point  of  crowning  a  very 
pyramid  of  good  fortune. 

300 


The  Fatal  Tress 

Slowly  and  daintily  he  unfastened  the  studs  in 
Ryan's  shirt;  he  was  playing  with  blood  now,  and 
must  avoid  unnecessary  stains.  He  would  just  take 
what  he  wanted — take  it  cleverly,  without  leaving  a 
trace  behind — and  satisfy  himself  that  it  was  what  he 
wanted,  more  or  less.  Then  he  would  fire  one  cham- 
ber of  Ryan's  revolver,  and  make  off.  But  first — those 
notes!  The  chest  was  already  bathed  in  blood;  but 
Pound  saw  at  once  the  object  of  his  search,  the 
cause  of  his  deed,  and  his  black  heart  leapt  within 
him. 

Well,  the  little  oiled-silk  bag  was  small — unexpect- 
edly small — incredibly  small ;  but  then  there  were  bank 
notes  for  enormous  sums;  and  one  bank-note,  or  two, 
or  three,  would  fold  quite  as  small  as  this,  and  press 
as  thin.  To  Pound's  ignorant  mind  it  seemed  quite 
natural  for  Sundown,  the  incomparably  clever  Sun- 
down, to  have  exchanged  his  ill-gotten  gold  for  good, 
portable  paper-money  at  some  or  other  time  and  place. 
Dexterously,  with  the  keen  broad  blade  of  his  knife, 
he  cut  the  suspending  tapes  and  picked  up  the  bag  on 
its  point.  The  oiled-silk  bag  was  blood-stained;  he 
wiped  it  gingerly  on  the  flap  of  Ryan's  coat,  and  then 
wiped  the  blood  from  his  own  fingers.  He  knew  better 
than  to  allow  bank-notes  to  become  stained  with 
blood. 

Yet  how  light  it  was  in  his  palm!  It  would  not  be 
lighter  if  the  oiled-silk  contained  nothing  at  all.  By 
its  shape,  however,  it  did  contain  something.  Pound 
rose  to  his  feet  to  see  what.  His  confidence  was  ebb- 
ing. His  knees  shook  under  him  with  misgiving.  He 
moved  unsteadily  to  the  low  stone  parapet,  sat  down, 

301 


At  Large 


and  ripped  open  the  little  bag  with  such  clumsy  haste 
that  he  cut  his  finger. 

Jem  Pound  sat  like  a  man  turned  to  stone.  The 
little  bag  was  still  in  his  left  hand,  and  the  knife;  his 
right  hand  was  empty^;  the  contents  of  the  bag,  a  lock 
of  light  hair,  had  fallen  from  his  right  palm  to  the 
ground,  where  it  lay  all  together,  for  there  was  no 
wind  to  scatter  it. 

Jem  Pound's  expression  was  one  of  blank,  un- 
speakable, illimitable  disappointment;  suddenly  he 
looked  up,  and  it  turned  to  a  grimace  of  speechless 
terror. 

The  barrel  of  the  other  revolver  covered  him. 

Bleeding  terribly  from  the  bullet  in  his  lungs,  but 
stunned  by  the  fall  on  his  head,  Ned  Ryan  had  recov- 
ered consciousness  in  time  to  see  Pound  rip  open  the 
oiled-silk  bag,  in  time  to  smile  faintly  at  what  followed 
— and  to  square  accounts. 

Ryan  did  not  speak.  The  faint  smile  had  faded  from 
his  face.  In  the  relentless  glare  that  took  its  place  the 
doomed  wretch,  sitting  in  a  heap  on  the  low  parapet, 
read  his  death-warrant. 

There  was  a  pause,  a  hush,  of  very  few  moments. 
Pound  tried  to  use  his  tongue,  but,  like  his  lips,  it  was 
paralysed.  Then  the  echoes  of  the  cliflf  resounded  with 
a  second,  short,  sharp  pistol  shot,  and  when  the  white 
smoke  cleared  away  the  parapet  was  bare;  Jem  Pound 
had  vanished;  the  account  was  squared. 

Ryan  fell  back.  The  pistol  dropped  from  his  hand. 
Again  he  became  well-nigh  senseless,  but  this  time  con- 
sciousness refused  to  forsake  him  utterly;  he  rallied. 
Presently  he  fell  to  piecing  together,  in  jerky,  delirious 

302 


The  Fatal  Tress 

fashion,  the  events  of  the  last  few  minutes — or  hours, 
he  did  not  know  which — but  it  was  all  the  same  to  him 
now.  The  circumstances  came  back  to  him  vividly 
enough,  if  out  of  their  proper  sequence.  That  which 
had  happened  at  the  moment  his  senses  fled  from  him 
was  clearest  and  uppermost  in  his  mind  at  first. 

"The  cur!  "  he  feebly  moaned.  "  He  gave  me  no 
show.  He  has  killed  me — I  am  bleeding  to  death 
and  not  a  soul  to  stop  it  or  stand  by  me ! " 

Yet,  very  lately,  he  had  decided  that  his  life  was 
valueless,  and  even  thought  of  ending  it  by  his  own 
hand.  Some  dim  reflection  of  this  recent  attitude  of 
mind  perhaps  influenced  him  still,  for,  if  an  incoherent 
mind  can  be  said  to  reason,  his  first  reasoning  was 
somewhat  in  this  strain: 

"Why  should  I  mind?  Who  am  I  any  good  to,  I 
should  like  to  know?  What  right  have  I  to  live  any 
more?  None!  I'm  ready.  I've  faced  it  night  and 
day  these  four  years,  and  not  for  nothing — not  to  flinch 
now  it's  here!  .  .  .  And  hasn't  my  life  been  gay 
enough,  and  wild  enough,  and  long  enough?  .  .  . 
I  said  I'd  die  in  the  bush,  and  so  I  will — here,  on  these 
blessed  old  ranges.  But  stop!  I  didn't  mean  to  be 
shot  by  a  mate — I  didn't  mean  that.  A  mate? 
A  traitor!    What  shall  we  do  with  him?" 

His  mind  had  annihilated  space :  it  had  flown  back 
to  the  bush. 

A  curious  smile  flickered  over  Ryan's  face  in  answer 
to  his  own  question. 

"  What  have  I  done  with  him  ?  "  he  muttered. 

He  raised  himself  on  his  elbows  and  looked  towards 
the  spot  where  he  had  seen  Pound  last.    The  formation 

303 


At  Large 


of  the  parapet  seemed  to  puzzle  him.    It  was  unlike 
the  ranges. 

"  He  was  always  the  worst  of  us,  that  Jem  Pound," 
he  went  rambling  on  ;  "  the  worst  of  a  bad  lot,  I  know. 
But  those  murders  were  his  doing.  So  at  last  we 
chucked  him  overboard.  And  now  he's  come  back 
and  murdered  me.  As  to  that,  I  reckon  we're  about 
quits,  with  the  bulge  on  my  side.  Never  mind,  Jem 
Pound  " — with  a  sudden  spice  of  grim  humour — 
"  we'll  meet  again  directly.  Your  revenge  '11  keep  till 
then,  old  son !  " 

All  this  time  Ryan's  brain  was  in  a  state  of  twilight. 
He  now  lay  still  and  quiet,  and  began  to  forget  again. 
But  he  could  not  keep  his  eyes  long  from  the  spot 
whence  Pound  had  disappeared,  and  presently,  after  a 
fruitless  effort  to  stand  upright,  he  crawled  to  the  para- 
pet, slowly  Hfted  himself,  and  hung  over  it,  gazing 
down  below. 

Nothing  to  be  seen ;  nothing  but  the  tops  of  the  fir- 
trees.  Nothing  to  be  heard ;  for  the  fir-trees  were 
asleep  in  the  still,  heavy  atmosphere,  and  the  summer 
rain  made  no  noise.  He  raised  his  head  until  his  eyes 
fell  upon  the  broad  flat  table-land.  The  air  was  not 
clear,  as  it  had  been  in  the  morning.  That  pall  of  black 
smoke  covering  the  distant  town  was  invisible,  for  the 
horizon  was  far  nearer,  misty  and  indeterminate ;  and 
his  eyes  were  dim  as  they  never  had  been  before.  The 
line  of  white  smoke  left  by  an  engine  that  crept  lazily 
across  the  quiet  country  was  what  he  saw  clearest ;  the 
tinkling  of  a  bell — for  Sunday-school,  most  likely — 
down  in  one  of  the  hamlets  that  he  could  not  see,  was 
the  only  sound  that  reached  his  ears. 

304 


The  Fatal  Tress 

Yet  he  was  struggling  to  recognise  as  much  as  he 
could  see,  vaguely  feeling  that  it  was  not  altogether 
new  to  him.  It  was  the  struggle  of  complete  con- 
sciousness returning. 

He  was  exhausted  again;  he  fell  back  into  the  road. 
Then  it  was  that  he  noticed  the  parapet  streaming  with 
blood  at  the  spot  where  he  had  hung  over  it.  To  think 
that  the  coward  Pound  should  have  bled  so  freely  in 
so  short  a  time !  And  how  strange  that  he,  Ned  Ryan, 
should  not  have  observed  that  blood  before  he  had 
drenched  himself  in  it!  No!  Stop!  It  was  his  own 
blood !  He  was  shot ;  he  was  dying ;  he  was  bleeding 
to  his  death — alone — away  from  the  world! 

A  low  moan — a  kind  of  sob — escaped  him.  He  lay 
still  for  some  minutes.  Then,  with  another  effort,  he 
raised  himself  on  his  elbow  and  looked  about  him. 
The  first  thing  that  he  saw — close  to  him,  within  his 
reach — was  that  fatal  tress  of  light-coloured  hair ! 

In  a  flash  his  mind  was  illumined  to  the  innermost 
recesses,  and  clear  from  that  moment. 

Now  he  remembered  everything :  how  he  had  come 
to  his  senses  at  the  very  moment  that  Pound  was 
handling  this  cherished  tress,  which  alone  was  suffi- 
cient reason  and  justification  for  shooting  Jem  Pound 
on  the  spot;  how  he  had  been  on  his  way  to  fetch  help 
— help  for  Alice  Bristo! 

He  pressed  the  slender  tress  passionately  to  his  lips, 
then  twined  it  tightly  in  and  out  his  fingers. 

Faint  and  bleeding  as  he  was,  he  started  to  his  feet. 
New  power  was  given  him  ;  new  life  entered  the  failing 
spirit:  new  blood  filled  the  emptying  vessels.  For  a 
whole  minute  Ned  Ryan  was  a  Titan.     During  that 

305 


At  Large 


minute  the  road  reeled  out  like  a  red-brown  ribbon 
under  his  stride.  The  end  of  that  minute  saw  him  at 
the  top  of  Melmerbridge  Bank.  There,  with  the  vil- 
lage lying  at  his  feet,  and  the  goal  all  but  won,  he 
staggered,  stumbled,  and  fell  headlong  to  the  ground. 


306 


XXVIII 

THE    EFFORT 

Galloping  over  the  moor,  fresh  from  his  corn,  the 
pony  suddenly  swerved,  and  with  such  violence  that 
the  trap  was  all  but  overturned. 

"  What  was  that  ?  "  asked  Edmonstone,  who  was 
driving. 

"  A  hat,"  Pinckney  answered. 

These  two  men  were  alone  together,  on  an  errand 
of  life  or  death. 

Edmonstone  glanced  back  over  his  shoulder. 

"  I'll  swear,"  said  he,  "  that  hat  is  Miles's !  " 

"  Good  heavens !  has  he  stuck  to  the  road  ?  " 

"  Looks  like  it." 

"  Then  we're  on  his  track  ?  " 

"  Very  Hkely." 

"  And  will  get  him,  eh  ?  " 

At  this  question  Edmonstone  brought  down  the 
lash  heavily  on  the  pony's  flank. 

"  Who  wants  to  get  him  ?  Who  cares  what  be- 
comes of  him?  The  Melmerbridge  doctor's  the  man 
we  want  to  get !  " 

Pinckney  relapsed  into  silence.  It  became  plain  to 
him  that  his  companion  was  painfully  excited.  Other- 
wise there  was  no  excuse  for  his  irritability. 

At  the  foot  of  the  last  steep  ascent  on  the  farther 
307 


At  Large 


side  of  the  moor,  Pinckney  had  jumped  out  to  walk. 
He  was  walking  a  few  yards  ahead  of  the  pony.  Sud- 
denly he  stopped,  uttered  a  shrill  exclamation,  and 
picked  up  something  he  found  lying  in  the  road.  He 
was  then  but  a  few  feet  from  the  top,  and  the  low  stone 
parapet  was  already  on  his  right  hand. 

"  What  is  it?  "  cried  Dick,  from  the  pony-trap  be- 
low. 

Pinckney  threw  his  hand  high  over  his  head.  The 
revolver  was  stamped  black  and  sharp  against  the  cold 
grey  sky. 

A  cold  shudder  passed  through  Edmonstone's 
strong  frame.  The  wings  of  death  beat  in  his  ears 
and  fanned  his  cheek  with  icy  breath.  The  dread  angel 
was  hovering  hard  by.  Dick  felt  his  presence,  and 
turned  cold  and  sick  to  the  heart. 

"  Let  me  see  it,"  cried  Dick,  urging  on  the  pony. 

Pinckney  ran  down  to  meet  him  with  a  pale,  scared 
face. 

"  It  was  his,"  faltered  Pinckney.  "  I  ought  to  know 
it.  He  threatened  me  with  it  when  I  tried  to  stop  him 
bolting." 

The  slightest  examination  was  enough  to  bespeak 
the  worst. 

"  One  cartridge  has  been  fired,"  said  Dick,  in  a 
hushed  voice.    "  God  knows  what  we  shall  find  next ! " 

What  they  found  next  was  a  patch  of  clotting  blood 
upon  the  stones  of  the  parapet. 

They  exchanged  no  more  words,  but  Dick  got  down 
and  ran  on  ahead,  and  Pinckney  took  the  reins. 

Dick's  searching  eyes  descried  nothing  to  check 
the  speed  of  his  running  till  he  had  threaded  the  nar- 

308 


The  Effort 

row,  winding  lane  that  led  to  Melmerbridge  Bank, 
and  had  come  out  at  the  top  of  that  broad  highway ; 
and  there,  at  the  roadside,  stretched  face  downward 
on  the  damp  ground,  lay  the  motionless  form  of  Sun- 
down, the  Australian  outlaw. 

The  fine  rain  was  falling  all  the  time.  The  tweed 
clothes  of  the  prostrate  man  were  soaked  and  dark 
with  it.  Here  and  there  they  bore  a  still  darker,  soak- 
ing stain ;  and  a  thin,  thin  stripe  of  dusky  red,  already 
two  feet  in  length,  was  flowing  slowly  down  the  bank, 
as  though  in  time  to  summon  the  people  of  Melmer- 
bridge to  the  spot.  Under  the  saturated  clothes  there 
was  no  movement  that  Dick  could  see ;  but  neither 
was  there,  as  yet,  the  rigidity  of  death  in  the  long, 
muscular,  outstretched  limbs. 

Dick  stole  forward  and  knelt  down,  and  murmured 
the  only  name  that  rose  to  his  lips : 

"Miles!  Miles!  Miles!" 

No  answer — no  stir.  Dick  lowered  his  lips  to  the 
ear  that  was  uppermost,  and  spoke  louder : 

"  Miles !  " 

This  time  a  low,  faint  groan  came  in  answer.  He 
still  lived! 

Dick  gently  lifted  the  damp  head  between  his  two 
hands,  and  laid  Ryan's  cheek  upon  his  knee. 

Ryan  opened  his  blue  eyes  wide. 

"  Where  am  I  ?    Who  are  you  ?    Ah !  " 

Consciousness  returned  to  the  wounded  man,  com- 
plete in  a  flash  this  time.  At  once  he  remembered  all 
— tearing  madly  down  from  the  top,  in  and  out  this 
winding  track — and  all  that  had  gone  before.  He 
was  perfectly  lucid.     He  looked  up  in  Edmonstone's 

309 


At  Large 


face,  pain  giving  way  before  fierce  anxiety  in  his  own, 
and  put  a  burning  question  in  one  short,  faint,  preg- 
nant word: 

"Well?" 

Had  health  and  strength  uttered  this  vague  interro- 
gative, Dick  would  have  replied  on  the  instant  from 
the  depths  of  his  own  anxiety  by  telling  the  little  that 
he  knew  of  Alice  Bristo's  condition.  But  here  was  a 
man  struck  down — dying,  as  it  seemed.  How  could 
one  think  that  on  the  brink  of  the  grave  a  man  should 
ask  for  news  from  another's  sick  bed?  Edmonstone 
was  puzzled  by  the  little  word,  and  showed  it. 

"You  know  what  I  mean?"  exclaimed  Ryan,  with 
weary  impatience.     "Is  she — is  she — dead?" 

"  God  forbid !  "  said  Dick.  "  She  is  ill — she  is  in- 
sensible still.  But  man,  man,  what  about  you  ?  What 
have  you 'done?  " 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  "  cried  Ryan,  hoarsely.  "  I 
have  come  to  bring  help  to  her — and — I  have  failed 
her !  I  can  get  no  further !  " 

His  voice  rose  to  a  wail  of  impotent  anguish.  His 
face  was  livid  and  quivering.  He  fell  back  exhausted. 
Dick  attempted  to  staunch  the  blood  that  still  trickled 
from  the  wound  in  the  chest.  But  what  could  he  do  ? 
He  was  powerless.  In  his  helplessness  he  gazed  down 
the  bank;  not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen.  He  could  not 
leave  Ryan.  He  could  hear  the  sure-footed  steps  of 
the  pony  slowly  approaching  from  above.  What  was 
he  to  do?  Was  this  man  to  die  in  his  arms  without 
an  effort  to  save  him  ?  He  gazed  sorrowfully  upon  the 
handsome  face,  disfigured  by  blood,  and  pain,  and 
mire.     All  his  relations  with  this  man  recrossed  his 

310 


The  Effort 

mind  in  a  swift  sweeping  wave,  and,  strange  to  say, 
left  only  pity  behind  them.  Could  nothing  be  done  to 
save  him? 

The  pony-trap  was  coming  nearer  every  instant. 
It  was  Dick's  one  hope  and  comfort,  for  Pinckney 
could  leave  the  trap  and  rush  down  into  the  village 
for  help.  He  hallooed  with  all  his  might,  and  there 
was  an  answering  call  from  above. 

"  Make  haste,  make  haste !  "  cried  Dick  at  the  top 
of  his  voice. 

The  shouting  aroused  Ryan.  He  opened  his  eyes, 
and  suddenly  started  into  a  sitting  posture. 

"  Haste  ?  "  he  cried,  with  articulation  weaker  yet 
more  distinct.  "  Yes,  make  haste  to  the  township ! 
To  the  township,  do  you  hear?     There  it  is!  " 

He  pointed  through  the  rain  to  the  red  roofs  of 
Melmerbridge,  on  the  edge  of  the  tableland  below. 
It  was  then  that  Dick  noticed  the  lock  of  hair  twisted 
about  the  fingers  of  Ryan's  right  hand. 

"  There  it  is,  quite  close — don't  you  see  it  ?  Go ! 
go — I  can't!  Fly  for  your  life  to  the  township,  and 
fetch  him — not  to  me — to  her !  For  God's  sake,  fetch 
him  quick !  " 

For  all  the  use  of  the  word  "  township,"  his  mind 
was  not  wandering  in  Australia  now. 

"  Why  don't  you  go?  You  may  be  too  late!  Why 
do  you  watch  me  Hke  that  ?  Ah,  you  won't  go !  You 
don't  care  for  her  as  I  did  ;  you  want  her  to  die  !  " 

Wildly  he  flung  himself  forward,  and  dug  his  fingers 
into  the  moist  ground,  and  began  feebly  creeping 
down  the  bank  on  his  hands  and  knees.  Dick  tried  in 
vain  to  restrain  him.    The  failing  heart  was  set  upon 

311 


At  Large 


an  object  from  which  death  alone  could  tear  it.  Dur- 
ing this  the  last  hour  of  his  life  this  criminal,  this  com- 
mon thief,  had  struggled  strenuously  towards  an  end 
unpretending  enough,  but  one  that  was  for  once  not 
selfish — had  struggled  and  fought,  and  received  his 
death-wound,  and  struggled  on  again.  His  life  had 
been  false  and  base.  It  cannot  be  expected  to  count 
for  much  that  in  his  last  moments  he  was  faithful,  and 
not  ignoble.  Yet  so  it  was  in  the  end.  Edmonstone 
tried  in  vain  to  restrain  him;  but  with  a  last  extraor- 
dinary effort  he  flung  himself  clear,  and  half  crawled, 
half  rolled  several  yards. 

Suddenly  Ned  Ryan  quivered  throughout  his  whole 
frame.  Dick  caught  him  in  his  arms,  and  held  him 
back  by  main  force. 

The  dying  man's  glassy  gaze  was  fixed  on  the  red 
roofs  below.  For  an  instant  one  long  arm  was  pointed 
towards  them,  and  a  loud  clear  voice  rang  out  upon 
the  silent  air: 

"  The  township !    The  township !  " 

The  cry  ended  in  a  choking  sob.  The  arm  fell 
heavily.  Edmonstone  supported  a  dead  weight  on  his 
breast. 

"  Pinckney ! " 

"  Yes,  yes  ?  " 

"  God  forgive  him — it's  all  over !  " 


312 


XXIX 

ELIZABETH    RYAN 

Elizabeth  Ryan  did  not  return  to  Gateby  after  leav- 
ing Pound  in  the  fields  between  the  village  and  the 
shooting-box.  All  that  night  she  roamed  the  lanes 
and  meadows  like  a  restless  shade.  Whither  her  foot- 
steps led  her  she  cared  little,  and  considered  less. 

Though  not  unconscious  of  the  mechanical  act  of 
walking,  her  sense  of  locomotion  was  practically  sus- 
pended. A  night  on  the  treadmill  would  have  left 
upon  her  an  impression  of  environment  no  more 
monotonous  than  that  which  remahied  to  her  when 
this  night  was  spent;  and  she  never  once  halted  the 
whole  night  through. 

Her  seeing  mind  held  but  one  image — her  husband. 
In  her  heart,  darting  its  poison  through  every  vein, 
quivered  a  single  passion — violent,  ungovernable  an- 
ger. The  full,  undivided  force  of  this  fierce  passion 
was  directed  against  Edward  Ryan. 

Later — when  the  flame  had  gone  out,  and  the  sullen 
glow  of  stern  resolve  remained  in  its  stead — the  situa- 
tion presented  itself  in  the  form  of  alternatives.  Either 
she  must  betray  her  husband,  or  set  him  free  by  end- 
ing her  own  miserable  life.  One  of  these  two  things 
must  be  done,  one  left  undone.  There  was  no  third 
way  now.    The  third  way  had  been  tried;   it   should 

3'3 


At  Large 


have  led  to  compassion  and  justice ;  it  had  led  only  to 
further  cruelty  and  wrong-.  One  of  the  remaining 
ways  must  now  be  chosen  ;  for  the  woman  it  little  mat- 
tered which ;  they  surely  converged  in  death. 

At  daybreak  Elizabeth  Ryan  found  herself  in  flat, 
low-lying  country.  She  looked  for  the  hills,  and  saw 
them  miles  away.  From  among  those  hills  she  had 
come.  She  must  have  been  walking  right  through 
the  night,  she  thought. 

She  was  by  no  means  sure.  She  only  knew  that  her 
brain  had  been  terribly  active  all  through  the  night — 
she  could  not  answer  for  her  body.  Then,  all  at  once, 
a  deadly  weariness  overcame  her,  and  a  score  of  aches 
and  pains  declared  themselves  simultaneously.  Pre- 
vented by  sheer  distraction  from  feeling  fatigue  as  it 
came,  by  natural  degrees,  the  moment  the  mental 
strain  was  interrupted  the  physical  strain  manifested 
its  results  in  the  aggregate  ;  Mrs.  Ryan  in  one  moment 
became  ready  to  drop. 

She  had  drifted  into  a  narrow  green  lane  leading  to 
a  farmhouse.  She  followed  up  this  lane  till  it  ended 
before  a  substantial  six-barred  gate.  She  opened  the 
gate  and  entered  the  farmyard.  She  tried  the  doors 
of  the  outbuildings.  A  cowhouse  was  open  and 
empty;  one  of  its  stalls  was  stacked  high  with  hay; 
to  the  top  of  this  hay  she  climbed,  and  crept  far  back 
to  the  wall,  and  covered  her  dress  with  loose  handfuls 
of  the  hay.  And  there  Elizabeth  Ryan  went  near  to 
sleeping  the  clock  round. 

A  hideous  dream  awoke  her  at  last.  She  was  trem- 
bling horribly.  She  had  seen  her  husband  dead  at  her 
feet — murdered  at  his  wife's  instigation! 

314 


Elizabeth  Ryan 


The  mental  picture  left  by  the  dream  was  so  vivid 
that  the  unhappy  woman  lay  long  in  terror  and  trem- 
bling, not  daring  to  move.  Instead  of  paling  before 
consciousness  and  reason,  the  ghastly  picture  gained 
in  breadth,  colour,  and  conviction  with  each  waking 
minute.  He  was  lying  dead  at  her  feet — her  husband 
— her  Ned — the  man  for  love  of  whom  she  had  crossed 
the  wide  world,  and  endured  nameless  hardships,  un- 
utterable humiliation.  He  was  slain  by  the  hand  of 
the  man  who  had  led  her  to  him — by  the  ruthless  mur- 
derer, Jem  Pound ! 

She  remembered  her  words  to  Pound,  and  her  teeth 
chattered :  "  Take  it,  even  if  you  have  to  take  his  life 
with  it !  "  Those  were  the  very  words  she  had  used 
in  her  frenzy,  meaning  whatever  it  was  that  Ned  wore 
upon  his  breast.  He  wore  it,  whatever  it  was,  near 
to  his  heart ;  he  must  value  it  next  to  his  Hfe.  What 
else  could  it  be  but  money?  Oh,  why  had  she  told 
Pound  ?  How  could  passion  carry  her  so  far  ?  If  her 
dream  was  true — and  she  had  heard  of  true  dreams — 
then  her  husband  was  murdered,  and  the  guilt  was 
hers. 

A  low  wail  of  agony  escaped  her,  and  for  a  moment 
drove  her  fears  into  a  new  channel.  Suppose  that  cry 
were  heard!  She  would  be  discovered  immediately, 
perhaps  imprisoned,  and  prevented  from  learning  the 
worst  or  the  best  about  her  dream,  which  she  must 
learn  at  any  price  and  at  once !  Filled  with  this  new 
and  tangible  dread  she  buried  herself  deeper  in  the 
hay  and  held  her  breath.  No  one  came.  There  was 
no  sound  but  her  own  heart's  loud  beating,  and  the 
dripping  and  splashing  of  the  rain  outside  in  the  yard, 

315 


At  Large 


and  the  rising  of  the  wind.  She  breathed  freely  again ; 
more  freely  than  before  her  alarm.  The  minutes  of 
veritable  suspense  had  robbed  the  superstitious  terror 
of  half  its  power,  but  not  of  the  motive  half,  she  must 
go  back  and  make  sure  about  that  dream  before  carry- 
ing out  any  previous  resolution.  Until  this  was  done, 
indeed,  all  antecedent  resolves  were  cancelled. 

She  crept  down  from  the  hay  and  peeped  cautiously 
foutside.  She  could  see  no  one.  It  was  raining  in  tor- 
rents and  the  wind  was  getting  up.  With  a  shudder 
she  set  her  face  to  it,  and  crossed  the  yard.  At  the 
gate  she  stopped  suddenly,  for  two  unpleasant  facts 
simultaneously  revealed  themselves :  she  had  no  idea 
of  the  way  to  Gateby,  and  she  was  famishing.  Now 
to  be  clear  on  the  first  point  was  essential,  and  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  apply  boldly  at  the  farmhouse 
for  the  information ;  as  to  the  second,  perhaps  at  the 
farmhouse  she  might  also  beg  a  crust. 

"  Dear  heart !  "  cried  the  good  wife,  answering  the 
timid  knock  at  the  door.  "  Hast  sprung  from  t'grave, 
woman  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  answered  Elizabeth,  sadly ;  "  I  am  only  on 
my  way  there." 

The  farmer's  wife,  a  mountain  of  rosy  kindliness, 
stared  curiously  at  the  pale  frightened  face  before  her, 
and  up  and  down  the  draggled  dress. 

"  Why,  Lord,  thou'rt  wet  and  cold ;  an'  I'll  be  bound 
thou's  had  nobbut  hay  for  thy  bed." 

With  a  sudden  flood  of  tears,  Elizabeth  Ryan  con- 
fessed where  she  had  been  sleeping  all  day. 

"  Nay,  nay,  honey,"  said  the  good  woman,  a  tear 
standing  in  her  own  eye,  "  it's  nowt — it's  nowt.  Come 

316 


Elizabeth  Ryan 


in  and  get  thysel'  warmed  an'  dried.  We're  having 
our  teas,  an'  you  shall  have  some,  an'  all!  " 

Thus  the  poor  vagrant  fell  among  warm  Yorkshire 
hearts  and  generous  Yorkshire  hands.  They  gave  her 
food,  warmth,  and  welcome,  and  pitied  her  more  than 
they  liked  to  say.  And  when,  in  spite  of  all  protests, 
she  would  go  on  her  way  (though  the  risen  wind  was 
howling  in  the  chimney,  and  driving  the  heavy  rain 
against  the  diamond  panes),  honest  William,  son  of 
the  house  and  soil,  brought  a  great  sack  and  tied  it 
about  her  shoulders,  and  himself  set  her  on  the  high 
road  for  Melmerbridge. 

"  Ye'll  'ave  te  go  there,"  said  he,  "  to  get  te 
Gaatby.  'Tis  six  mile  from  this,  an'  Gaatby  other 
fower." 

Six  miles  ?  That  was  nothing.  So  said  the  strange 
woman,  as  she  tramped  oflf  in  the  teeth  of  the  storm ; 
and  William,  hurrying  homeward,  wondered  what  had 
made  her  eyes  so  bright  and  her  step  so  brisk  all  at 
once.  He  asked  his  parents  what  they  thought,  but 
they  only  shook  their  puzzled  heads :  they  had  done 
nothing  out  of  the  way  that  they  knew  of;  how  could 
they  guess  that  it  had  been  their  lot  to  show  the  first 
human  kindness  to  a  poor  forlorn  pilgrim  from  over 
the  seas — the  first  the  poor  woman  had  met  with  in 
all  stony-hearted  England? 

Yet  her  treatment  at  the  hands  of  these  simple 
people  had  lightened  the  heart  of  Elizabeth  Ryan,  and 
the  terror  of  her  awful  dream  had  softened  it.  Her 
burning  rage  against  her  husband  was  quenched ;  she 
thought  of  it  with  shuddering  shame.  Her  wild  re- 
solves were  thrown  to  the  winds ;  she  must  have  been 

317 


At  Large 


mad  when  she  entertained  them.  She  must  have  been 
blind  as  well  as  mad ;  but  now  her  sight  was  restored. 
Yes,  now  she  could  see  things  in  their  true  light.  Now 
she  could  see  who  had  caused  her  husband's  cruelty ; 
who  had  poisoned  him  against  her — subtly,  swiftly, 
surely,  at  their  first  meeting;  who  had  drugged  her, 
and  then  shown  Ned  his  drunken  wife  at  their  second 
meeting;  whom  she  had  to  thank  for  all  her  misery: 
the  fiend,  Jem  Pound. 

It  was  true  that  Ned  had  treated  her  heartlessly; 
but,  believing  what  he  believed  of  her,  could  she  blame 
him  ?  She  blamed  him  for  listening  to  the  first  whis- 
per against  her,  from  the  lips  of  a  monster;  but  his 
fault  ended  there.  He  had  never  heard  her  in  her  own 
defence.  He  had  not  so  much  as  seen  her  alone. 
There  lay  the  root  of  it  all:  she  had  been  allowed  no 
chance  of  explaining,  of  throwing  herself  on  his  com- 
passion. 

But  now  she  was  going  to  put  an  end  to  all  this. 
She  was  going  to  him  at  once,  and  alone.  She  was 
going  to  tell  him  all :  how  she  had  waited  patiently  for 
him  at  Townsville  until  the  news  of  his  capture  drove 
her  almost  frantic ;  how,  in  the  impulse  and  madness 
of  the  moment,  she  had  trusted  herself  to  Jem  Pound, 
and  followed  him,  her  husband,  to  England ;  how  she 
had  followed  him  for  his  own  sake,  in  the  blindness  of 
her  love,  which  separation  and  his  life  of  crime  had 
been  powerless  to  lessen;  how,  ever  since,  she  had 
been  in  the  power  of  a  ruffianly  bully,  who  had  threat- 
ened and  cajoled  her  by  turns. 

And  then  she  would  throw  herself  at  Ned's  feet,  and 
implore  his  mercy.    And  he,  too,  would  see  clearly, 

318 


Elizabeth  Ryan 


and  understand,  and  pity  her,  and  take  her  back  into 
his  life.  Whether  that  Hfe  was  bad  or  good,  it  alone 
was  her  heart's  desire. 

A  soft  smile  stole  over  the  haggard  face,  upon  which 
the  wind  and  the  rain  were  beating  more  fiercely  every 
minute.  Wind  and  rain  were  nothing  to  her  now; 
she  could  not  feel  them ;  she  was  back  in  Victoria,  and 
the  sky  above  was  dark  blue,  and  the  trees  on  either 
side  the  flint-strewn  track  were  gaunt,  grey,  and  som- 
bre. The  scent  of  the  eucalyptus  filled  her  nostrils. 
The  strokes  of  two  galloping  horses  rang  out  loud 
and  clear  on  the  rough  hard  road.  She  was  mounted 
on  one  of  these  horses,  Ned  on  the  other.  They  were 
riding  neck  and  neck,  she  and  her  handsome  Ned — 
riding  to  the  township  where  the  little  iron  church 
was.  It  was  their  marriage  morn.  She  had  fled  from 
home  for  ever. 

Surely  he  loved  her  then —  a  little  ?  Yet  he  had  left 
her,  very  soon,  without  a  word  or  a  cause ;  for  weeks 
she  could  gather  no  tidings  of  him,  until  one  day  news 
came  that  rang  through  the  countryside,  and  was 
echoed  throughout  the  colony — news  that  stamped 
her  new  name  with  infamy.  But  had  she  changed  her 
name,  or  sunk  her  identity,  or  disowned  her  husband, 
as  some  women  might  have  done  ?  No.  She  had  em- 
ployed her  woman's  wit  to  hunt  her  husband  down — 
to  watch  over  him — to  warn  him  where  danger  lurked. 
One  night — it  stood  out  vividly  in  her  memory — she 
had  burst  breathlessly  into  his  bivouac,  and  warned 
him  in  the  nick  of  time :  half-an-hour  later  the  armed 
force  found  the  fires  still  burning,  but  the  bushrangers 
flown.    And  he  had  been  good  to  her  then ;  for  it  was 

319 


At  Large 


then  that  he  had  given  her  the  money  to  go  to  his 
only  relative — a  sister  at  Townsville ;  and  he  had 
promised  in  fun  to  "  work  up  "  through  Queensland, 
some  day,  and  meet  her  there.  Yes,  with  the  hounds 
of  justice  on  his  heels  he  had  made  time  to  be  kind  to 
her  then,  after  a  fashion.  It  was  not  much,  that 
amount  of  kindness,  but  it  would  be  enough  for  her 
now.  After  all  that  she  had  gone  through,  she  would 
be  content  with  something  short  of  love,  say  even  tol- 
erance. She  would  try  to  win  the  rest,  in  after  years — 
years  when  Ned  settled  down  in  some  distant  country 
— when  Ned  reformed.  Could  he  refuse  her  now  so 
small  a  measure  of  what  she  gave  him  without  stint  ? 
Surely  not.  It  was  impossible.  Unless — unless — 
unless — 

What  made  Elizabeth  Ryan  clench  her  drenched 
cold  fingers  and  draw  her  breath  so  hard?  What 
blotted  out  the  visionary  blue  skies,  tore  hope  and 
fancy  to  shreds,  and  roused  her  to  the  bleak  reality 
of  wind  and  rain  and  the  sickening  memory  of  her 
husband's  heartlessness  ?  What,  indeed,  but  the  sug- 
gestions of  Jem  Pound  ? 

She  loathed  herself  for  listening  to  a  single  word 
from  that  polluted  source ;  yet,  as  Pound's  words 
came  back  to  her,  she  listened  again  to  them  all.  She 
thought  of  the  pretty,  delicate,  pink-and-white  woman 
her  own  eyes  had  seen  by  the  waters  of  the  Thames, 
with  whom  she  had  spoken,  who  had  dared  to  oflfer 
her  money.  The  thought  became  a  globe  of  fire  in 
her  brain ;  and  soon  the  poor  woman  had  worked  her- 
self back  into  a  frame  of  mind  bordering  upon  that 
frenzy  which  had  driven  her  hither  and  thither,  like  a 

320 


Elizabeth  Ryan 


derelict  ship  at  the  wind's  mercy,  through  the  long 
hours  of  the  previous  night.  The  appearance  of  watery 
lights  through  the  storm  came  not  before  it  was  time. 
Even  to  EHzabeth  Ryan,  with  hope  and  passion  wrest- 
ling in  her  breast,  there  was  a  certain  faint  excitement 
and  satisfaction  in  reaching  a  village  after  a  six-mile 
tramp  through  wind,  rain,  and  dusk  deepening  into 
night.  Besides,  if  this  was  Melmerbridge,  she  must 
ask  and  find  out  the  road  to  Gateby. 

Guided  by  the  lights,  she  presently  reached  the 
north  end  of  the  long,  one-sided  village  street;  the 
long  straight  stream,  now  running  turbulently,  was 
on  her  left  as  she  advanced,  and  Melmerbridge  Bank 
straight  ahead,  at  the  southern  end  of  the  village. 
An  irregular  line  of  lights  marked  the  houses  on.  the 
right ;  to  the  left,  across  the  beck,  there  were  no  such 
lights  ;  but  a  set  of  church  windows — the  church  being 
lit  up  for  evening  service — hung  gaudily  against  the 
black  screen  of  night ;  the  outline  of  the  church  itself 
was  invisible.  The  deep  notes  of  an  organ  rose  and 
fell  in  the  distance,  then  died  away;  then  suddenly, 
as  the  wayfarer  gazed,  the  stained-glass  window  dis- 
appeared, and  Mrs.  Ryan  found  herself  in  the  midst 
of  a  little  stream  of  people  who  were  coming  from  the 
bridge  in  front  of  the  church  to  the  cottages  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  road. 

From  one  of  these  people  she  received  the  directions 
she  required,  but  she  noticed  that  most  of  them  were 
talking  eagerly  and  excitedly,  in  a  way  not  usual  among 
folks  fresh  from  worship,  or  indeed  in  a  quiet  country 
village  at  any  time.  Little  groups  formed  in  the  door- 
ways and  kept  up  an  animated  conversation.    Clearly 

321 


At  Large 


there   was   something   of  uncommon   interest   astir. 
Mrs.  Ryan  passed  on,  mildly  interested  herself. 

The  last  houses  of  the  village  were  darker.  Eliza- 
beth touched  their  outer  walls  with  her  skirts  as  she 
trudged  along  the  narrow  uneven  pavement.  From 
one  of  them  came  a  sound  which  struck  her  as  an  odd 
sound  for  a  Sabbath  evening — the  long,  steady  sweep 
and  swish  of  a  plane.  This  house  was  a  shop ;  for  six 
parallel  threads  of  light  issued  from  the  chinks  of  the 
tall  shutters.  Through  one  of  these  chinks  a  small 
boy  was  gazing  with  rapt  attention  and  one  eye  closed. 
Mrs.  Ryan  stopped,  and  out  of  mere  curiosity  peered 
through  another. 

A  burly  old  man  was  energetically  planing  a  long, 
wide,  roughly-shaped,  hexagonal  plank.  The  shape 
of  the  plank  was  startling. 

"  What  is  it  he  is  making?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Ryan  of 
the  small  boy.  Perhaps  she  could  see  for  herself,  and 
put  the  question  mechanically. 

The  answer  was  prompt  and  short: 

"  A  coffin !  " 

Mrs.  Ryan  shuddered  and  stood  still.  The  urchin 
volunteered  a  comment. 

"  My !  ain't  it  a  long  'un !  Did  ye  iver  see  sich  a 
long  'un,  missis?  " 

He  was  little  Tom  Rowntree,  the  sexton's  son  and 
heir,  this  boy,  so  he  knew  what  he  was  talking  about ; 
one  day,  all  being  well,  he  would  dig  graves  and  bury 
folks  himself;  he  took  a  profound  premature  interest 
in  all  branches  of  the  hereditary  avocation. 

"  Who  is  dead?  "  asked  Mrs.  Ryan,  in  a  hard  metal- 
lic voice. 

322 


Elizabeth  Ryan 


"  Haven't  heard  tell  his  name,  but  'tis  a  sooincide, 
missis —  a  sooincide !  A  gent's  been  and  shot  hisself 
upon  the  bank  there,  this  afternoon.  He's  a-lyin'  ower 
yonder  at  t'  Blue  Bell." 

"Where  is  that?" 

"  Yonder,  look — t'  last  house  on  this  side.  It's  nigh 
all  dark,  it  is,  an'  no  one  there  'cept  my  mother  an' 
Mr.  Robisson  hisself,  an'  customers  turned  away  an* 
all.  That's  'cause  Mrs.  Robisson  she's  took  the  high- 
strikes — some  people  is  that  weak !  " 

But  there  was  no  listener  to  these  final  words 
of  scorn.  With  a  ghastly  face  and  starting  eyes, 
Elizabeth  Ryan  was  staggering  to  the  Blue  Bell 
inn. 

A  square  of  pale  light  dimly  illumined  a  window 
close  to  the  ground  to  the  left  of  the  door,  otherwise 
the  inn  was  in  darkness.  Elizabeth  Ryan  crouched 
down,  and  never  took  her  eyes  from  that  window  till 
the  light  was  extinguished.  Then  she  heard  the  door 
within  open  and  shut,  and  the  outer  door  open.  A 
man  and  a  woman  stood  conversing  in  low  tones  on 
the  steps,  the  woman's  voice  broken  by  sobs. 

"  'Tisn't  that  I'm  growing  old  and  nervous,  Mr. 
Robisson,  and  thinkin'  that  me  own  time'll  come  some 
day ;  no,  it's  not  that.  But  all  these  years — and  never 
such  a  thing  to  happen  in  the  village  before — little  did 
I  think  to  live  to  be  called  in  to  the  likes  o'  this.  And 
such  a  good  face  as  I  never  seed  in  living  man,  poor 
fellow!  You  never  know  where  madness  comes  in, 
and  that's  what  it's  been,  Mr.  Robisson.  And  now 
I'm  out  o'  t'  room  I'm  that  faint  I  don't  know  how  to 
get  home." 

323 


At  Large 


"  Come,  come,  I'll  give  you  my  arm  and  umbrella 
across.  Mistress  Rowntree." 

"  But  ye've  left  t'  key  in  t'  door?  " 

"Oh,  I'll  be  back  quick  enough;  it's  only  a  step." 

He  gave  her  his  arm,  and  the  pair  came  out  together 
and  went  slowly  up  the  village  street.  In  less  than 
five  minutes  the  landlord  of  the  Blue  Bell  returned, 
locked  all  the  doors,  and  went  to  bed,  leaving  the  inn 
in  total  darkness. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  this  total  darkness  was 
interrupted ;  a  pale  light  glimmered  in  the  window  close 
to  the  ground  to  the  left  of  the  door.  This  light  burned 
some  ten  or  twenty  minutes.  Just  before  it  was  put 
out,  the  window-sash  was  moved  up  slowly.  Then, 
when  all  was  once  more  in  darkness,  a  figure  stepped 
out  upon  the  sill,  leapt  lightly  to  the  ground,  and 
cautiously  drew  down  the  sash. 


324 


XXX 

SWEET  REVENGE 

Whistling  over  the  hilltops  and  thundering  through 
the  valleys,  down  came  the  wind  upon  the  little  lonely 
house  by  the  roadside;  and  with  the  wind,  driving 
rain;  and  they  beat  together  upon  the  walls  of  that 
corner  room  wherein  Alice  Bristo  lay  trembling  be- 
tween life  and  death. 

The  surgeon  from  Melmerbridge  pronounced  it  to 
be  brain  fever.  He  had  found  the  patient  wildly  de- 
lirious. The  case  was  grave,  very  grave.  Dangerous? 
There  was  always  danger  with  an  abnormal  tempera- 
ture, and  delirium.  Dr.  Mowbray  stayed  until  evening, 
and  ultimately  left  his  patient  sleeping  quietly.  He 
promised  to  return  in  the  early  morning. 

The  doctor  stopped,  as  he  was  driving  off,  to  shriek 
something  through  the  storm: 

"  Have  you  any  one  who  can  nurse — ^among  the 
servants?  " 

Inquiries  were  immediately  made. 

"  No,"  was  the  answer. 

"  I'll  send  over  a  handy  woman  from  Melmerbridge," 
said  Dr.  Mowbray;  crack  went  his  whip,  and  the  g^g- 
wheels  splashed  away  through  the  mud. 

A  young  man  standing  at  the  other  side  of  the  road, 
bareheaded  and  soaked  to  the  skin,  wondered  whether 

325 


At  Large 


the  nurse  would  be  sent  at  once  that  night.  Then  this 
young  man  continued  his  wild  rapid  walk  up  and  down 
the  country  road,  glancing  up  every  moment  at  the 
feeble  light  that  shone  from  the  casement  of  that  corner 
room  on  the  upper  floor. 

Up  and  down,  never  pausing  nor  slackening  his 
speed,  fifty  paces  above  the  house  and  fifty  below  it, 
this  unquiet  spirit  strode  to  and  fro  in  the  wind  and  the 
rain,  like  Vanderdecken  on  his  storm-proof  poop. 

Once,  when  opposite  the  house,  he  touched  the  skirts 
of  a  woman  crouching  under  the  hedge;  but  he  was 
not  aware  of  it — he  was  gazing  up  at  the  window — 
and,  before  he  passed  that  spot  again  the  woman  was 
gone. 

The  woman  had  crept  stealthily  across  the  road  and 
through  the  open  wicket.  She  was  crouching  behind 
the  opposite  hedge,  on  the  rough  grass-plot  in  front 
of  the  house.  Once  more  the  swinging  steps  passed 
the  house  and  grew  faint  in  the  distance.  The  crouch- 
ing woman  sprang  erect,  darted  noiselessly  up  the 
steps,  and  grasped  the  door-handle.  She  turned  the 
handle  and  pushed  gently,  the  door  was  neither  locked 
nor  bolted;  it  opened.  The  woman  entered,  and  closed 
the  door  softly  behind  her.  She  stooped,  listening. 
The  footsteps  passed  the  house  without  a  pause  or  a 
hitch,  as  before.  She  had  been  neither  seen  nor  heard 
— from  without.  A  horrid  smile  disfigured  the 
woman's  livid  face.  She  stood  upright  for  an  instant, 
her  hand  raised  to  her  forehead,  pausing  in  thought. 

A  lamp  was  burning  low  on  the  table  in  the  passage; 
its  dull  light  flickered  upon  the  dark,  fierce,  resolute 
face  of  Elizabeth  Ryan. 

326 


Sweet  Revenge 


The  dark  hair  fell  in  sodden  masses  about  a  face 
livid  and  distorted  with  blind  fury,  the  dark  eyes 
burned  like  live  coals  in  the  dim  light,  the  cast  of  the 
firm  wide  mouth  was  vindictive,  pitiless;  the  fingers 
of  the  right  hand  twitched  terribly;  once  they  closed 
spasmodically  upon  a  loose  portion  of  the  ragged  dress, 
and  wrung  it  so  hard  that  the  water  trickled  down  in  a 
stream  upon  the  mat,  and  at  that  moment  murder  was 
written  in  the  writhing  face.  The  left  hand  was  tightly 
clasped. 

Elizabeth  Ryan  had  crept  into  the  chamber  of  death, 
in  the  Blue  Bell  at  Melmerbridge,  during  the  five  min- 
utes' absence  of  the  innkeeper.  It  was  she  who  had 
quitted  that  room  by  the  window.  She  had  fled  wildly 
over  the  moor,  maddened  by  a  discovery  that  scorched 
up  the  grief  in  her  heart,  setting  fire  to  her  brain, 
changed  in  a  flash  from  a  bewildered,  heartbroken, 
forlorn  creature  to  a  ruthless  frantic  vendetta.  The 
substance  of  that  discovery  was  hidden  in  her  clasped 
left  hand. 

She  stood  for  a  brief  interval  on  the  mat,  then  stepped 
stealthily  forward  towards  the  stairs.  A  light  issued 
from  an  open  door  on  the  left,  near  the  foot  of  the 
stairs.  She  peeped  in  as  she  passed.  Stretched  on  a 
couch  lay  an  old  white-haired  man,  dressed  as  though 
it  were  mid-day  instead  of  mid-night,  in  a  tweed  suit. 
Though  asleep,  his  face  was  full  of  trouble.  Nothing 
in  this  circumstance,  nor  in  the  conduct  of  the  man 
outside  walking  to  and  fro  in  the  storm,  nor  in  the  dim 
lights  all  over  the  house  at  this  hour,  struck  Elizabeth 
Ryan  as  extraordinary.  Her  power  of  perception  was 
left  her;  her  power  of  inference  was  gone,  except  in 

327 


At  Large 

direct  relation  to  the  one  hideous  project  that  possessed 
her  soul.  She  crept  softly  up  the  stairs.  They  did  not 
creak.  She  appreciated  their  silence,  since  it  furthered 
her  design. 

As  below,  a  light  issued  from  an  open  door.  She 
approached  this  door  on  tip-toe.  A  pair  of  small  light 
shoes,  with  the  morning's  dust  still  upon  them,  stood 
at  one  side  of  the  mat ;  someone  had  mechanically  placed 
them  there.  When  Elizabeth  Ryan  saw  them  her  burn- 
ing eyes  dilated,  and  her  long  nervous  fingers  closed 
with  another  convulsive  grasp  upon  the  folds  of  her 
skirt. 

She  crossed  the  threshold  and  entered  the  room. 
The  first  thing  she  saw,  in  the  lowered  light  of  a  lamp, 
was  an  old,  puckered,  wrinkled  face  just  appearing 
over  a  barrier  of  eiderdown  and  shawls,  and  deep-set 
in  an  easy-chair.  The  brown,  wrinkled  eyelids  met  the 
brown,  furrowed  cheeks.  The  watcher  slumbered  and 
slept. 

As  yet  the  room  wore  none  of  the  common  trappings 
of  a  sick-room:  the  illness  was  too  young  for  that. 
The  book  the  sick  girl  had  been  reading  last  night  lay 
open,  leaves  downward,  on  the  chest  of  drawers;  the 
flowers  that  she  had  picked  on  the  way  to  church,  to 
fasten  in  her  dress,  had  not  yet  lost  their  freshness; 
the  very  watch  that  she  had  wound  with  her  own  hand 
last  night  was  still  ticking  noisily  on  the  toilet-table. 
Thus,  to  one  entering  the  room,  there  was  no  warning 
of  sickness  within,  unless  it  was  the  sight  of  the  queer 
old  sleeping  woman  in  the  great  chair  by  the  fireside, 
where  a  small  fire  was  burning. 

The  stealthy  visitor  took  two  soft,  swift,  bold  steps 
328 


Sweet  Revenge 


forward — only  to  start  back  in  awe  and  horror,  and 
press  her  hand  before  her  eyes.  She,  Elizabeth  Ryan, 
might  do  her  worst  now.  She  could  not  undo  what 
had  been  done  before.  She  could  not  kill  Death,  and 
Death  had  forestalled  her  here. 

A  cold  dew  broke  out  upon  the  woman's  forehead. 
She  could  not  move.  She  could  only  stand  still  and 
stare.  Her  brain  was  dazed.  She  could  not  under- 
stand, though  she  saw  plainly  enough.  After  a  few 
moments  she  did  understand,  and  her  heart  sickened 
as  it  throbbed.  Oh  that  it  would  beat  its  last  beat  there 
and  then!  Oh  if  only  she  too  might  die!  Standing, 
as  she  thought,  in  the  presence  of  death  for  the  second 
time  that  night,  Elizabeth  Ryan  lifted  her  two  arms, 
and  prayed  that  the  gracious  cold  hand  might  be  ex- 
tended to  her  also.  In  the  quenching  of  the  fires  that 
had  raged  in  her  brain,  in  the  reawakening  of  her  heart's 
anguish,  this  poor  soul  besought  the  Angel  of  Death 
not  to  pass  her  by,  praying  earnestly,  pitifully,  dumbly, 
with  the  gestures  of  a  fanatic. 

She  lowered  her  eyes  to  face  for  the  last  time  her 
whom  death  had  snatched  from  vengeance.  She 
started  backwards,  as  she  did  so,  in  sudden  terror. 
What  was  this  ?  The  dead  girl  moved — ^the  dead  girl 
breathed — the  counterpane  rose  and  fell  evenly.  Had 
she  been  mistaken  in  her  first  impression  ?  Elizabeth 
Ryan  asked  herself  with  chattering  teeth.  No !  More 
likely  she  was  mistaken  now.  This  must  be  an  illusion, 
like  the  last;  she  had  been  terrified  by  a  like  movement 
in  the  room  at  the  Blue  Bell,  and  it  had  proved  but  a 
cruel  trick  of  the  sight  and  the  imagination;  and  this 
was  a  repetition  of  the  same  cruel  trick. 

329 


At  Large 


No,  again !  The  longer  she  looked  the  more  distinct 
grew  this  movement.  It  was  regular,  and  it  was  gentle. 
Faint  yet  regular  breathing  became  audible.  The  face 
on  the  pillows  was  flushed.  Death  had  stopped  short 
at  Melmerbridge;  Death  had  not  travelled  so  far  as 
this — at  least,  not  yet:  there  was  still  a  chance  for 
vengeance ! 

But  Elizabeth  Ryan  had  undergone  a  swift  psycho- 
logical reaction.  That  minute  in  which  she  stood,  as 
she  believed,  for  the  second  time  that  night  in  the 
presence  of  Death — ^that  minute  in  which  her  spirit 
yearned  with  a  mighty  longing  to  be  stilled,  too,  for 
ever — that  minute  had  done  its  work.  In  it  the  mists 
of  passion  had  risen  from  the  woman's  mind;  in  it  the 
venom  had  been  extracted  from  her  heart.  Her  eyes, 
now  grown  soft  and  dim,  roved  slowly  round  the  room. 
They  fell  curiously  upon  something  upon  a  chair  on 
the  far  side  of  the  bed — a  heap  of  light  hair;  they 
glanced  rapidly  to  the  head  on  the  pillows — it  was  all 
but  shaved. 

Elizabeth  Ryan  raised  her  clenched  left  hand;  the 
hand  trembled — the  woman  trembled  from  head  to 
foot.  She  laid  her  arms  upon  the  chest  of  drawers,  and 
her  face  upon  her  arms,  and  stood  there  until  her 
trembling  ceased.  When  at  last  she  raised  her  head, 
her  eyes  were  swimming,  but  a  bright  determination 
shone  out  through  the  tears. 

She  moved  cautiously  round  the  foot  of  the  bed 
and  dipped  her  left  hand  into  the  heap  of  light  hair, 
and  for  the  first  time  unclasped  her  hand.  The  hand 
was  lifted  empty,  but  the  heap  of  Alice's  hair  remained 
a  heap  of  her  hair  still;  it  had  but  received  its  own  again. 

330 


Sweet  Revenge 


This  strange  yet  simple  act  seemed  to  afford  the 
performer  the  deepest  relief;  she  gazed  kindly,  even 
tenderly,  on  the  young  wan  face  before  her,  and  sighed 
deeply.  Then  hastily  she  retraced  her  steps  to  the 
door.  At  the  door  she  stopped  to  throw  back  a  glance 
of  forgiveness  and  farewell. 

Now  it  happened  that  the  head  of  the  sleeping  girl 
had  slipped  upon  the  pillow,  so  that  its  present  position 
made  the  breathing  laboured. 

Quick  as  thought,  Mrs.  Ryan  recrossed  the  room 
from  the  door,  and,  with  her  woman's  clever  light  hand, 
rearranged  the  pillows  beneath  the  burning  head,  and 
smoothed  them  gently.  But  in  doing  this  the  silent 
tears  fell  one  after  the  other  upon  the  coverlet;  and 
when  it  was  done  some  sudden  impulse  brought  Eliza- 
beth upon  her  knees  by  the  bedside,  and  from  that 
bleeding  heart  there  went  up  a  short  and  humble 
prayer,  of  which  we  have  no  knowing — at  which  we 
can  make  no  guess,  since  it  flew  upward  without  the 
weight  of  words. 

How  cold,  how  bitter,  how  piercing  were  the  blast 
and  the  driving  rain  outside!  In  the  earlier  part  of  the 
night  their  edge  had  not  been  half  so  keen ;  at  all  events, 
it  did  not  cut  so  deep.  Where  was  a  woman  to  turn 
on  such  a  night?  A  woman  who  had  no  longer  any 
object  in  life,  nor  a  single  friend,  nor — if  it  came  to 
that — a  single  coin:  what  .was  such  an  one  to  do  on  a 
night  like  this? 

The  picture  of  the  warm,  dry  bedroom  came  vividly 
back  to  Elizabeth  Ryan ;  she  felt  that  she  would  rather 
lie  sick  unto  death  in  that  room  than  face  the  wild  night 
without  an  ailment  more  serious  than  a  broken,  bleed- 

331 


At  Large 


ing  heart.  She  looked  once  back  at  the  dim  light  in 
the  upper  window,  and  then  she  set  her  face  to  Gateby. 
Before,  however,  she  was  many  paces  on  her  way,  quick 
footsteps  approached  her — footsteps  that  she  seemed 
to  know — and  a  man's  voice  hailed  her  in  rapid,  excited 
tones : 

"Are  you  from  Melmerbridge?" 

"  Yes,"  she  faltered.  What  else  dared  she  say.  It 
was  true,  too. 

"  Then  you  are  the  nurse!  you  are  the  nurse!  I  have 
been  waiting  for  you,  looking  out  for  you,  all  the  night, 
and  now  you  have  come ;  you  have  walked  through  the 
storm ;  God  bless  you  for  it !  " 

His  voice  was  tremulous  with  thanks  and  joy ;  yet 
trouble  must  have  clouded  his  mind,  too,  or  he  never 
could  have  believed  in  his  words. 

"  I  do  not  understand — "  Mrs.  Ryan  was  beginning, 
but  he  checked  her  impatiently: 

"  You  are  the  nurse,  are  you  not?  "  he  cried,  with 
sudden  fear  in  his  voice.  "  Oh  don't — don't  tell  me 
I'm  mistaken!  Speak — yes,  speak — for  here  we  are 
at  the  house." 

The  pause  that  followed  well-nigh  drove  him  frantic. 
Then  came  the  answer  in  a  low,  clear  voice : 

"  You  are  not  mistaken.  I  am  waiting  to  be  shown 
into  the  house." 


332 


XXXI 

THE  CHARITY   OF   SILENCE 

Dr.  Mowbray,  coming  first  thing  in  the  morning, 
declared  that  the  patient  had  passed  a  better  night 
than  he  had  hoped  for;  but  he  told  Colonel  Bristo 
privately  that  he  must  count  on  nothing  as  yet,  and 
be  prepared  for  anything. 

To  his  surprise  and  delight,  the  physician  found  his 
patient  in  the  hands  of  a  gentle,  intelligent  nurse.  This 
was  the  more  fortunate  since  he  had  failed  to  find  in 
Melmerbridge  a  capable  woman  who  was  able  to  come. 
Whoever  the  dark,  shabbily-dressed  woman  was,  she 
must  not  be  allowed  to  leave  the  bedside  for  the 
present.  "  She  is  a  godsend,"  said  Dr.  Mowbray  on 
coming  downstairs.  Colonel  Bristo,  for  his  part,  knew 
nothing  of  the  woman;  he  supposed  she  was  from 
Gateby.  Mrs.  Parish,  no  doubt,  knew  all  about  her; 
and  after  the  doctor's  account  of  her  services,  the 
Colonel  made  no  inquiries. 

Edmonstone  and  Pinckney  were  to  drive  back  to 
Melmerbridge  with  the  doctor  to  attend  the  inquest 
on  the  body  of  the  suicide.  Before  they  started  the 
Colonel  called  the  two  young  men  aside,  and  a  brief, 
earnest  colloquy  took  place. 

During  the  drive  Dr.  Mowbray  mentioned  a  strange 
report  that  had  reached  him  before  leaving  Melmer- 

333 


At  Large 


bridge ;  it  was  noised  in  the  village,  at  that  early  hour, 
that  the  dead  man  had  moved  one  of  his  hands  during 
the  night. 

"  It  will  show  you,"  the  doctor  said,  "  the  lengths  to 
which  the  rustic  imagination  can  stretch.  The  fact  is, 
they  are  terribly  excited  and  primed  with  superstition, 
for  there  hasn't  been  a  suicide  in  the  parish  in  the 
memory  of  this  generation.  What  is  more,"  added  the 
old  gentleman,  suddenly,  "  I'm  not  sure  that  there's 
been  one  now !  " 

There  was  some  excuse,  perhaps,  for  the  string  of 
excited  questions  reeled  off  on  the  spur  of  the  moment 
by  young  Pinckney:  "Why?  How  could  it  be  any- 
thing else  but  suicide?  Had  they  not  got  the  pistol — 
Miles's  own  pistol?  Had  not  Dr.  Mowbray  himself 
said  that  the  bullet  extracted  fitted  the  one  empty  car- 
tridge found  in  the  revolver?  Besides,  Miles  had  not 
denied  shooting  himself  when  asked  by  Edmonstone 
what  he  had  done." 

"  But  did  he  admit  that  he  had  shot  himself?  "  asked 
Dr.  Mowbray,  turning  to  Edmonstone. 

"  No,  he  did  not." 

"  Was  his  manner,  up  to  the  last,  that  of  a  man  who 
had  deliberately  shot  himself?  " 

"  No,  it  was  not.     It  might  have  been  an  accident." 

"  Neither  the  one  nor  the  other,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  Now  I'll  tell  you  two  something  that  I  shall  make 
public  presently :  a  man  cannot  point  a  pistol  at  himself 
from  a  greater  distance  than  two  feet  at  the  outside ; 
but  this  shot  was  fired  at  three  times  that  range ! " 

"  How  can  you  tell,  sir? "  asked  Pinckney,  with 
added  awe  and  subtracted  vehemence. 

334 


The  Charity  of  Silence 

"  The  clothes  are  not  singed ;  the  hole  might  have 
been  made  by  a  drill,  it  was  so  clean." 

The  young  man  sat  in  silent  wonder.  Then  Dick 
put  a  last  question: 

"  You  think  it  has  been — murder?  " 

"  Personally,  I  am  convinced  of  it.  We  shall  say 
all  we  know,  and  get  an  adjournment.  At  the  ad- 
journed inquest  Colonel  Bristo  will  attend,  and  tell  us 
his  relations  with  the  dead  man,  who,  it  appears,  had 
no  other  friend  in  the  country;  but  to-day  that  is  not 
absolutely  necessary,  and  I  shall  explain  his  absence 
myself.  Meanwhile,  detectives  will  be  sent  down,  and 
will  find  out  nothing  at  all,  and  the  affair  will  end  in  a 
verdict  against  some  person  or  persons  unknown,  at 
best." 

Dr.  Mowbray's  first  prediction  was  forthwith  ful- 
filled :  the  inquest  was  adjourned.  The  doctor  at  once 
drove  back  to  Gateby  with  the  two  young  men.  As 
they  drove  slowly  down  the  last  hill  they  descried  two 
strangers,  in  overcoats  and  hard  hats,  conversing  with 
Colonel  Bristo  in  the  road.  Philip  Robson  was  stand- 
ing by,  talking  to  no  one,  and  looking  uncomfort- 
able. 

When  the  shorter  of  the  two  strangers  turned  his 
face  to  the  gig,  Dick  ejaculated  his  surprise — for  it  was 
the  rough,  red,  good-humoured  face  of  the  Honour- 
able Stephen  Biggs. 

"What  has  brought  you  here?"  Dick  asked  in  a 
low  voice  when  he  had  greeted  the  legislator. 

By  way  of  reply,  Biggs  introduced  him  to  the  tall, 
grave,  black-bearded,  sharp-featured  gentleman — Ser- 
geant Compton,  late  of  the  Victorian  Mounted  Police. 

335 


At  Large 


There  was  an  embarrassed  silence;  then  Philip  Rob- 
son  stepped  forward. 

"  It  was  my  doing,"  he  said,  awkwardly  enough ;  and 
he  motioned  Dick  to  follow  him  out  of  hearing  of  the 
others.  "  I  listened,"  he  then  confessed,  "  to  a  con- 
versation between  you  and  Miles.  I  heard  you  read  a 
letter  aloud.  From  what  passed  between  you,  I  gath- 
ered that  Miles  was  a  blackleg  of  some  kind,  whom 
you  were  screening  from  the  police.  Miles  found  that 
I  had  overheard  you,  and  swore  to  me  that  you  were 
the  victim  of  a  delusion.  When  I  reflected,  I  disbe- 
lieved him  utterly.  I  copied  the  address  of  the  letter 
you  had  written,  and  the  next  day  I  wrote  myself  to 
Mr.  Biggs,  describing  Miles  as  well  as  I  could,  and 
saying  where  he  was.  I  did  not  dream  that  Miles  was 
a  bushranger,  even  then — I  thought  he  was  merely  a 
common  swindler.  However,  that's  the  whole  truth. 
Edmonstone,  I'm  sorry!" 

Dick's  first  expression  of  contempt  had  vanished. 
Frank  admissions  turn  away  wrath  more  surely  than 
soft  answers.  Besides,  Robson  had  behaved  well  yes- 
terday: without  him,  what  might  not  have  happened 
before  Dr.   Mowbray  arrived? 

"  I  believe,"  said  Dick,  "  that  you  were  justified  in 
what  you  did,  only — I'm  sorry  you  did  it." 

Mr.  Biggs  was  in  close  conversation  with  Colonel 
Bristo.  Sergeant  Compton  stood  aloof,  silent  and 
brooding;  in  the  hour  of  triumph  Death  had  baulked 
him  of  his  quarry;  his  dark  face  presented  a  study  in 
fierce  melancholy. 

"  If  only,"  the  Colonel  was  saying  piteously,  "  the 
tragedy  could  stop  at  the  name  of  Miles !    The  scandal 

336 


The  Charity  of  Silence 

that  will  attach  to  us  when  the  whole  sensation  comes 
to  light  is  difficult  to  face.  For  my  part,  I  would  face 
it  cheerfully  if  it  were  not — if  it  were  not  for  my 
daughter  Alice.  And,  after  all,  it  may  not  annoy  her. 
She  may  not  live  to  hear  it." 

The  last  words  were  broken  and  hardly  intelligible. 

The  rugged  face  of  Stephen  Biggs  showed  honest 
concern,  and  honest  sympathy  too.  It  did  not  take 
him  long  to  see  the  case  from  the  Colonel's  point  of 
view,  and  he  declared  very  bluntly  that,  for  his  part, 
he  would  be  glad  enough  to  hush  the  thing  up,  so 
far  as  the  dead  man's  past  life  was  concerned  (and 
here  Mr.  Biggs  jingled  handfuls  of  coins  in  his  pockets), 
but  that,  unfortunately,  it  did  not  rest  with  him. 

"  You  see.  Colonel,"  he  explained,  "  my  mate  here 
he's  been  on  Ned  Ryan's  trail,  off  and  on,  these  four 
years.  Look  at  him  now.  He's  just  mad  at  being 
cheated  in  the  end.  But  he's  one  of  the  warmest  traps 
in  this  Colony — I  mean  out  in  Vic. ;  and,  mark  me,  he'll 
take  care  to  let  the  whole  Colony  know  that,  if  he 
warn't  in  at  Sundown's  death,  he  was  nearer  it  than 
any  other  blessed  '  trap.'  There's  some  personal  feel- 
ing in  it,  Colonel,"  said  Biggs,  lowering  his  voice. 
"  Frank  Compton  has  sworn  some  mighty  oath  or 
other  to  take  Ned  Ryan  alive  or  dead." 

"  Suppose,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  we  induce  your  friend 
here  to  hold  his  tongue,  do  you  think  it  would  be  pos- 
sible for  us  to  let  this  poor  fellow  pass  out  of  the  world 
as  Miles,  a  squatter,  or,  at  worst,  an  unknown  ad- 
venturer? " 

"  How  many  are  there  of  you.  Colonel,  up  here  who 
know?" 

337 


At  Large 


"  Four." 

"  And  there  are  two  of  us.  Total  six  men  in  the 
world  who  know  that  Ned  Ryan,  the  bushranger,  died 
yesterday.  The  rest  of  the  world  believes  that  he  was 
drowned  in  the  Channel  three  months  ago.  Yes,  I 
think  it  would  be  quite  possible.  Moreover,  I  don't  see 
that  it  would  do  the  least  good  to  any  one  to  undeceive 
the  rest  of  the  world;  but  Frank  Compton — " 

"  Is  he  the  only  detective  after  Miles  in  this  coun- 
try? " 

"  The  only  one  left.  The  others  went  back  to  Aus- 
tralia, satisfied  that  their  man  was  drowned." 

"  But  our  police —  " 

"  Oh,  your  police  are  all  right,  Colonel.  They've 
never  so  much  as  heard  of  Sundown.  They're  easily 
pleased,  are  your  police!" 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Dr.  Mowbray  reappeared 
on  the  steps.  Colonel  Bristo  went  at  once  to  learn  his 
report,  which  must  have  been  no  worse  than  that  of 
the  early  morning,  for  it  was  to  speak  of  the  inquest 
that  the  Colonel  hurried  back  the  moment  the  doctor 
drove  away. 

"  Dick,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  that  all  could  hear  (Ed- 
monstone  was  still  talking  to  Robson — Compton  still 
standing  aloof),  "  you  never  told  me  the  result.  The 
inquest  is  adjourned;  but  there  is  a  strong  impression 
it  seems  that  it  is  not  a  case  of  suicide  after  all,  gen- 
tlemen— but  one  of  wilful  murder." 

The  personal  bias  mentioned  by  Biggs  had  not  alto- 
gether extinguished  ordinary  professional  instincts  in 
the  breast  of  Sergeant  Compton ;  for,  at  this,  his  black 
eyes  glittered,  and  he  pulled  his  patron  aside. 

338 


The  Charity  of  Silence 

Biggs,  in  his  turn,  sought  a  private  word  with  the 
Colonel. 

"  Compton,"  he  said,  "  is  bent  on  at  once  seeing  the 
spot  where  Ryan  was  shot.  Will  you  send  some  one 
with  us?  I'll  bring  my  man  back  this  evening,  and 
we'll  try  to  talk  him  over  between  us;  but  I  fear  it's 
hopeless." 

Between  three  and  four  that  afternoon  the  body  of 
Jem  Pound  was  found  at  the  bottom  of  the  cliff,  a  mile 
from  Melmerbridge,  among  the  fir-trees. 

Between  eight  and  nine  that  evening,  in  the  little 
gun-room  at  the  shooting-box.  Biggs — in  the  presence 
of  Colonel  Bristo — made  a  last  effort  to  induce  Ser- 
geant Compton  to  join  the  conspiracy  of  silence  re- 
garding the  identity  of  Miles,  the  Australian  adven- 
turer, now  lying  dead  at  Melmerbridge,  with  Sun- 
down, the  Australian  bushranger,  supposed  to  have 
been  drowned  in  the  Channel  in  the  previous  April. 
All  to  no  purpose.    The  Sergeant  remained  obdurate. 

"  Mr.  Biggs,"  said  he,  "  and  you,  sir,  I  must  declare 
to  you  firmly  and  finally  that  it  is  impossible  for  me 
to  hold  my  tongue  in  a  case  like  this.  I  will  not  speak 
of  fairness  and  justice,  for  I  agree  that  no  one  will  be 
a  bit  the  better  off  for  knowing  that  Ned  Ryan  died 
yesterday  instead  of  last  spring.  I  will  be  perfectly 
candid.  I  will  ask  you  to  think  for  a  moment  what 
this  means  to  me.  It  means  this :  when  I  get  back 
to  Melbourne  I  will  be  worth  twice  what  I  was  before 
I  sailed.  The  fact  of  having  been  the  only  man  to 
disbelieve  in  Ryan's  drowning,  and  the  fact  of  having 
as  near  as  a  touch  taken  both  Ryan  and  Pound  alive, 
will  make  my  fortune  for  me  out  there." 

339 


At  Large 


Honest  Biggs  rattled  the  coins  in  his  pockets,  and 
seemed  about  to  speak. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Compton,  turning  to  his  patron. 
"  My  silence  won't  be  given — it  cannot  be  bought. 
I  have  another  reason  for  telling  everything:  my 
hatred  for  Ned  Ryan — that  death  cannot  cool !  " 

These  words  Compton  hissed  out  in  a  voice  of  low, 
concentrated  passion. 

"  I  have  not  dogged  him  all  these  years  for  mere  love 
of  the  work.  No!  He  brought  disgrace  upon  me  and 
mine,  and  I  swore  to  take  him  alive  or  dead.  I  keep 
my  oath — I  take  him  dead!  All  who  know  me  shall 
know  that  I  have  kept  my  oath!  As  for  Jem  Pound, 
his  mate  and  his  murderer —  " 

The  door  opened,  and  the  nurse  stood  panting  on  the 
threshold.  Even  in  her  intense  excitement  she  remem- 
bered that  she  had  left  her  charge  sleeping  lightly,  and 
her  words  were  low: 

"  What  is  it  you  say?  Do  you  say  that  Jem  Pound 
murdered  my  husband?"  Colonel  Bristo  and  the  Ser- 
geant started  simultaneously.  '*  Well,  I  might  have 
known  that — I  might  have  told  you  that.  But  upstairs 
— I  have  been  forgetting!  I  have  been  forgetting — 
forgetting!  Yet  when  I  heard  you  gentlemen  come  in 
here  I  remembered,  and  it  was  to  tell  you  what  I  knew 
about  Jem  Pound  that  I  came  down." 

Sergeant  Compton  had  turned  an  ashen  grey;  his 
eyes  never  moved  from  the  face  of  the  woman  from  the 
moment  she  entered  the  room.  Elizabeth  Ryan  crossed 
the  room  and  stood  in  front  of  him.  His  face  was  in 
shadow. 

"  You,  sir — I  heard  your  voice  as  my  hand  was  on 
340 


The  Charity  of  Silence 

the  door-handle;  and  I  seemed  to  know  your  voice; 
and,  while  I  stood  trying  to  remember  whose  voice  it 
was,  I  heard  what  you  said.  So  you  will  not  let  the 
dead  man  rest !  So,  since  he  escaped  you  by  his 
death,  you  would  bring  all  the  world  to  hoot  over 
his  grave!  Oh,  sir,  if  the  prayers  of  his  wife — his 
widow —  " 

She  stopped.  The  man  had  risen  unsteadily  from  his 
chair.  His  face  was  close  to  hers.  She  sprang  back  as 
though  shot. 

Sergeant  Compton  whispered  one  word:  "Liz!" 

Biggs  and  the  Colonel  watched  the  pale  dark  woman 
and  the  dark  pale  man  in  silent  wonder.  There  was  a 
likeness  between  man  and  woman. 

"  Liz!  "  repeated  the  Sergeant  in  a  low,  hoarse  voice. 

"Who — who  are  you?     Are  you — are  you — " 

"I  am  Frank!" 

"  Frank !  "  she  whispered  to  herself,  unable  to  realise 
all  at  once  who  Frank  had  been — it  was  so  long  since 
there  had  been  a  Frank  in  her  life.  "  What!  "  she  ex- 
claimed in  a  whisper;  "  not  my  brother  Frank?  " 

"  Yes,  your  brother  Frank.  But — but  I  thought  you 
were  out  there,  Liz.  I  thought  he  had  long  ago  de- 
serted you ;  and  that  made  me  thirst  all  the  more —  " 

His  sister  flung  herself  at  his  feet. 

"  Oh,  Frank!  Frank!  "  she  wailed.  "  Since  the  day 
I  married  I  have  spoken  to  none  of  my  own  kith  and 
kin  until  this  night.  And  this  is  how  we  meet !  Frank ! 
— Frank !  " — her  voice  fell  to  a  tremulous  whisper — 
"  do  one  thing  for  me,  and  then,  if  you  are  still  so 
bitter  against  me,  go  away  again.  Only  one  thing  I 
ask — a   promise.     Promise,   for  your  part,  to  keep 

341 


At  Large 


silence!  Let  the  dead  man — let  the  dead  man  sleep 
peacefully.  If  the  whole  truth  will  come  out,  come  out 
it  must;  but  don't  let  it  be  through  you,  Frank — 
never  let  it  be  through  you!  Speak.  Do  you 
promise?" 

The  low,  tearful,  plaintive  tones  ceased,  and  there 
was  silence  in  the  room.  Then  Francis  Compton  bent 
down,  and  lifted  his  sister  Elizabeth  in  his  arms. 

"  I  promise,"  he  whispered  in  a  broken  voice.  "  God 
knows  you  have  suffered  enough ! " 


342 


XXXII 
suspense:  reaction 

Days  of  suspense  followed,  while  Alice's  life  trem- 
bled in  the  balance.  In  what  way  these  days  were 
passed  the  watchers  themselves  scarcely  knew:  for  it 
is  among  the  offices  of  suspense  to  make  word  and 
deed  mechanical,  and  life  a  dream.  The  senses  are 
dulled ;  nothing  is  realised — not  even  death  itself,  when 
death  comes.  Afterwards  you  remember  with  horror 
your  callousness:  when  all  the  time  your  senses  have 
been  dulled  by  the  most  merciful  of  Nature's  laws. 
Afterwards  you  find  that  you  received  many  an  im- 
pression without  knowing  it.  Thus  Dick  Edmonstone, 
for  one,  recalled  a  few  things  that  he  had  quite  for- 
gotten, on  his  way  south  in  the  train  afterwards. 

He  could  feel  again  the  wind  lifting  the  hair  from 
his  head  on  the  dark  hilltop.  He  saw  the  crescent 
moon  racing  through  foamy  billows  of  clouds,  like  a 
dismasted  ship  before  the  wind.  He  felt  the  rushing 
air  as  he  sped  back  to  the  post  in  the  lonely  road  from 
which  he  watched  all  night  that  square  of  yellow  Hght 
— the  light  through  her  window-blind.  This  faint  yel- 
low light  shot  beams  of  hope  into  his  heart  through  the 
long  nights;  he  watched  it  till  dawn,  and  then  crept 
wearily  to  his  bed  in  the  inn.  When  he  roamed  away 
from  it,  a  superstitious  dread  seized  him  that  he  would 
return  to  find  the  light  gone  out  for  ever.    The  pale, 

343 


At  Large 


faint  light  became  to  him  an  emblem  of  the  faint, 
flickering  life  that  had  burnt  so  low.  He  would  wildly 
hurry  back,  with  death  at  his  heart.  Thank  God!  the 
light  still  burned. 

In  memory  he  could  hear  his  own  voice  treating 
with  a  carter  for  a  load  of  straw.  He  was  again  laying 
down  with  his  own  hands  the  narrow  road  with  this 
straw;  he  was  sitting  half  the  day  at  his  post  in  the 
gap  of  the  hedge,  watching  her  window;  he  was  tasting 
again  of  the  delight  with  which  he  watched  the  first 
vehicle  crawl  noiselessly  across  that  straw. 

These  were  among  his  most  vivid  recollections;  but 
voices  came  back  to  him  plainest  of  all. 

The  voices  of  the  professional  nurses,  whispering 
where  they  little  dreamt  there  was  a  listener ;  forebod- 
ing the  worst;  comparing  notes  with  their  last  fatal 
cases ;  throwing  into  their  tones  a  kind  of  pity  worse 
than  open  indifference — perfunctory  and  cold.  Or, 
again,  these  same  voices  telling  how  a  certain  name 
was  always  on  the  feverish  lips  upstairs. 

"  Ah,  poor  soul !  "  said  they ; "  she  thinks  of  nothing 
but  him!" 

Of  whom?  Whose  name  was  for  ever  on  her  lips? 
The  name  of  him  to  whom  she  had  breathed  her  last 
conscious  words? 

Even  so ;  for  another  voice  had  echoed  through  the 
silent  house  more  than  once,  and  could  never  be  for- 
gotten by  those  who  heard  it;  the  piercing,  heart- 
rending, delirious  voice  of  Alice  herself,  reiterating 
those  last  conscious  words  of  hers : 

"  Hear  what  it  was  he  said  to  me,  and  my  answer 
— which  is  my  answer  still !  " 

344 


Suspense :   Reaction 

What  had  Miles  said?  What  had  been  Alice's  an- 
swer ?  Who  would  ever  know  ?  Not  Dick ;  and  these 
words  came  back  to  him  more  often  than  any  others, 
and  they  tortured  him. 

But  there  were  other  words — words  that  had  been 
spoken  but  yesterday,  and  as  yet  seemed  too  good  to 
be  true ;  the  words  of  the  kind  old  country  doctor : 

"  She  is  out  of  danger !  " 

And  now  Dick  Edmonstone  was  being  whirled  back 
to  London.  Alice  was  declared  out  of  danger,  so  he 
had  come  away.  Alice  was  not  going  to  die.  Her 
young  life  was  spared.  Then  why  was  Dick's  heart 
not  filled  with  joy  and  thanksgiving?  Perhaps  it  was ; 
but  why  did  he  not  show  it?  He  who  had  been  fren- 
zied by  her  peril,  should  have  leapt  or  wept  for  joy  at 
her  safety.  He  did  neither.  He  could  show  no  joy. 
Why  not? 

Edmonstone  arrived  in  town,  and  broke  his  fast 
at  an  hotel — he  had  travelled  all  night.  After  break- 
fast he  drove,  with  his  luggage,  first  to  the  offices  of 
the  P.  and  O.  Company  in  Leadenhall  Street.  He 
stepped  from  that  office  with  a  brisker  air ;  something 
was  oflF  his  mind ;  something  was  definitely  settled. 
On  his  way  thence  to  Waterloo  he  whistled  lively 
tunes  in  the  cab.  By  the  time  he  reached  Teddington 
and  Iris  Lodge,  the  jauntiness  of  his  manner  was  com- 
plete. In  fact,  his  manner  was  so  entirely  different 
from  what  his  mother  and  Fanny  had  been  prepared 
for,  that  the  good  ladies  were  relieved  and  delighted 
beyond  measure  for  the  first  few  minutes,  until  a 
something  in  his  tone  pained  them  both. 

345 


At  Large 


"  Oh  yes,"  he  said,  carelessly,  in  answer  to  their 
hushed  inquiry,  "  she  is  out  of  danger  now,  safe 
enough.     It  has  been  touch  and  go,  though." 

He  might  have  been  speaking  of  a  horse  or  dog, 
and  yet  have  given  people  the  impression  that  he  was 
a  young  man  without  much  feeling. 

"  But — my  boy,"  cried  Mrs.  Edmonstone,  "  what 
has  been  the  matter  with  you?  We  never  heard  that 
you  were  ill;  and  you  look  like  a  ghost,  my  poor 
Dick !  " 

Dick  was  standing  in  rather  a  swaggering  attitude 
on  the  hearthrug.  He  wheeled  round,  and  looked 
at  himself  in  the  large  glass  over  the  chimneypiece. 
His  face  was  haggard  and  lined,  and  his  expression 
just  then  was  not  a  nice  one. 

"  Why,"  he  owned,  with  a  grating  laugh,  "  I  cer- 
tainly don't  look  very  fit,  now  you  mention  it,  do  I? 
But  it's  all  on  the  surface.  I'm  all  right,  bless  you! 
I'm  not  on  speaking  terms  with  the  sexton  yet,  any- 
way !  " 

A  tear  stood  in  each  of  Mrs.  Edmonstone's  dark 
eyes.  Fanny  frowned,  and  beat  her  foot  impatiently 
upon  the  carpet.    What  had  come  over  Dick  ? 

He  must  have  known  perfectly  well  the  utter  falsity 
of  the  mask  he  was  wearing ;  if  not,  self-deception  was 
one  of  his  accomplishments.  Or  perhaps  those  tears 
in  his  mother's  eyes  caused  a  pang  of  shame  to  shoot 
through  him.  In  any  case,  he  made  a  hasty  effort  to 
change  his  tone. 

"  How  are  you  two  ?  That  is  the  main  point  with 
me.    Bother  my  seediness !  " 

"  We  are  always  well,"  sighed  Mrs.  Edmonstone. 
346 


Suspense :   Reaction 

"And  Maurice?" 

"  Maurice  was  never  brisker." 

"  Lucky  dog !  "  said  Dick,  involuntarily ;  and  the 
bitterness  was  back  in  his  tone  before  he  knew  it. 

"  Your  friend  Mr.  Flint,"  said  Mrs.  Edmonstone, 
"  is  Maurice's  friend  now,  and  Mr.  Flint  finds  all  his 
friends  in  good  spirits." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  old  Jack  is  doing  the  absentee 
landlord  altogether?    Did  he  never  go  back?  " 

"  Yes.  But  he  is  over  again — he  is  in  town  just 
now,"  said  Mrs.  Edmonstone. 

"  He's  fast  qualifying  for  buckshot,  that  fellow," 
said  Dick,  with  light  irony. 

"  I  rather  fancy,"  observed  Fanny,  with  much  in- 
difference, "  that  you  will  see  him  this  evening.  I  half 
think  he  is  coming  back  with  Maurice."  And  Miss 
Fanny  became  profoundly  interested  in  the  world  out 
of  the  window. 

"  Good !  "  cried  Dick ;  and  there  was  a  ring  of  sin- 
cerity in  that  monosyllable  which  ought  to  have  made 
it  appreciated  —  as  much  as  a  diamond  in  a  dust- 
heap! 

In  a  little  while  Dick  went  up  to  his  room.  He  had 
letters  to  write,  he  said ;  but  he  was  heard  whistling 
and  singing  as  he  unpacked  his  portmanteau.  Neither 
of  the  ladies  saw  much  more  of  him  that  day.  They 
sat  together  in  wretched  silence ;  there  was  some  con- 
straint between  them ;  they  felt  hurt,  but  were  too 
proud  to  express  the  feeling  even  to  each  other.  The 
fact  was,  they  did  not  quite  know  why  they  felt  hurt. 
Dick  had  greeted  them  kindly  enough — it  was  only 
that  there  was  a  something  in  his  manner  which  they 

347 


At  Large 


didn't  like  and  could  not  understand.  And  so  both 
these  women  longed  heartily  for  evening,  and  the 
coming  of  Maurice  and  merry  Mr.  Flint — Fanny, 
however,  the  more  heartily  of  the  two. 

Maurice  and  Flint  did  come — in  excellent  time, 
too  ;  and  it  so  happened  that  when  the  little  table-gong 
rang  out  its  silvery  call,  Mr.  FHnt  and  Miss  Edmon- 
stone  were  still  perambulating  the  dewy,  twilit  tennis- 
court.  It  further  happened,  in  spite  of  the  last-men- 
tioned fact,  that  Miss  Fanny  contrived  to  reach  the 
drawing-room  before  her  mother  was  finally  disen- 
tangled from  the  wools  and  needles  that  beset  her  at 
most  hours  of  the  day ;  that  mother  and  daughter  were 
the  last  to  enter  the  little  dining-room,  hand  in  hand ; 
that  Miss  Fanny  looked  uncommonly  radiant,  and 
that  the  usual  stupid  tears  were  standing  in  gentle 
Mrs.  Edmonstone's  soft,  loving  eyes. 

Dick  was  unusually  brilliant  in  his  old  place  at  the 
head  of  the  table — so  brilliant  that  his  friend  Flint 
was  taken  by  surprise,  and,  for  his  own  part,  silenced ; 
though  it  is  true  that  the  latter  had  something  on  his 
mind  which  would  have  made  him,  in  any  case,  worse 
company  than  usual.  Dick  rattled  on  incessantly, 
about  the  dales,  and  the  moors,  and  the  grouse,  as 
though  his  stay  in  Yorkshire  was  associated  with  no 
tragedy,  and  no  sickness  nigh  unto  death.  His  mood, 
indeed,  was  not  taken  up  by  the  others,  but  he  did  not 
seem  to  notice  or  to  mind  that;  only  when  he  was 
quiet,  all  were  quiet,  and  the  sudden  silences  were  em- 
barrassing to  all  save  their  prime  author. 

The  longest  and  most  awkward  of  these  pauses  oc- 
curred while  the  crumbs  were  being  removed.    When 

348 


Suspense :   Reaction 

the  maid  had  withdrawn,  Dick  drank  of  his  wine,  re- 
filled his  glass,  held  it  daintily  by  the  stem  between 
finger  and  thumb,  leant  back  in  his  chair,  and  pro- 
ceeded deHberately  to  break  the  spell. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  began,  speaking  the 
trite  words  in  the  same  disagreeable  tone  that  had 
pained  the  ladies  that  morning,  "  I  am  going  to  make 
you  a  little  speech ;  a  very  little  one,  mind,  so  don't 
look  uncomfortable — you  needn't  even  feel  it." 

He  glanced  from  one  to  another  of  them.  They  did 
look  uncomfortable ;  they  felt  that  somehow  Dick  was 
not  himself;  they  heartily  wished  he  would  be  quiet. 
His  manner  was  not  the  manner  to  carry  off  a  sneer 
as  so  much  pleasantry. 

Dick  continued : 

"  All  good  things  must  come  to  an  end,  you  know — 
and,  in  fact,  that's  my  very  original  text.  Now  look  at 
me,  please — mother,  look  at  your  sheep  that  was  lost : 
thanks.  You  will,  perhaps,  agree  with  me  that  I'm 
hardly  the  fellow  I  was  when  I  landed ;  the  fact  being 
that  this  beautiful  British  climate  is  playing  old  Harry 
with  me,  and — all  good  things  come  to  an  end.  If 
I  may  class  myself  among  the  good  things  for  a  mo- 
ment— for  argument's  sake — it  seems  to  me  that  one 
good  thing  will  come  to  an  end  pretty  soon.  Look 
at  me — don't  you  think  so?" 

The  wretched  smile  that  crossed  his  lean,  pale  face 
was  not  at  variance  with  his  words.  He  was  much 
altered.  His  cheeks  were  sunken  and  bloodless,  dark 
only  under  the  eyes.  His  eyes  to-night  were  un- 
naturally bright.  His  lips  too  were  bloodless;  to- 
night they  were  quivering  incessantly.    His  question 

349 


At  Large 


was  left  unanswered,  as  he  meant  that  it  should  be. 
Flint  was  trying  mentally  to  compute  the  quantity  of 
wine  his  friend  might  possibly  have  taken ;  the  others 
could  not  have  spoken  at  that  moment  even  if  they 
would. 

"  Now,"  continued  Dick,  still  toying  with  his  wine, 
"  the  country  I  left  a  few  months  ago  never  allows  a 
man  to  fall  into  my  unhappy  plight.  It  puts  a  man 
in  good  health  at  the  beginning,  and  keeps  him  in  it 
to  the  end,  somewhere  in  the  nineties.  Why,  Maurice, 
if  he  went  out  there,  would  find  that  he  has  never 
known  what  health  is!  Fanny,  we  know,  is  a  hardy 
plant,  and  would  thrive  anywhere ;  yet  she  was  made 
for  the  life  out  there,  if  girl  ever  was.  As  for  you, 
mother,  it  would  clap  twenty  years  on  to  your  dear  old 
life — no,  it  would  make  you  twenty  years  younger. 
No  one  who  has  once  lived  there  will  live  anywhere 
else.  Even  old  Flint  here  is  dying  to  go  back;  he 
confessed  as  much  last  month.  Now  what  I  say  is 
this :  all  good  things,  etcetera — England  among  them. 
Therefore  let  us  all  go  out  there  together,  and  live 
happily  ever  afterwards !  Stop ;  hear  me  out,  all  of 
you :  it's  arranged  already — I  go  out  first,  to  stock  the 
station,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  The  fact  is,  I  booked  my 
passage  this  morning!  Come,  you  have  had  good 
patience ;  my  speech,  like  better  *  good  things,'  has 
come  to  an  end !  " 

His  tone  had  changed  from  half-jest  to  whole 
earnest — from  earnestness  to  ardour — from  ardour  to 
something  bordering  on  defiance.  But,  with  the  last 
word  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth,  he  checked  himself, 
and  ejaculated  below  his  breath :  "  Good  heavens !  " 

3SO 


Suspense :    Reaction 

*    Mrs.   Edmonstone  had  rushed  sobbing  from  the 
room. 

No  one  followed  her.  The  others  stared  blankly, 
then  indignantly,  at  Dick,  in  whose  face  concern  be- 
gan to  show  itself.    Then  young  Maurice  spoke  up. 

"  If  I  were  you,"  he  said  hotly  to  his  brother,  "  I'd 
go  after  her,  and  tell  her  you  have  taken  too  much 
wine,  and  beg  her  pardon  for  making  a  fool  of  your- 
self!" 

Dick  darted  an  angry  glance  at  him,  but  rose  and 
stalked  from  the  room.  In  point  of  fact,  the  wine  had 
not  had  much  to  do  with  it — no  more  and  no  less  than 
it  has  to  do  with  anybody's  after-dinner  speech.  At 
the  same  time,  Dick  had  not  been  altogether  in  his 
right  senses,  either  then  or  any  time  that  day.  He 
found  his  mother  weeping  as  though  her  heart  would 
break ;  whereat  his  own  heart  smote  him  so  that  he 
came  to  his  senses  there  and  then,  and  knelt  in  humil- 
ity and  shame  at  her  feet. 

"  Dearest  mother,  forgive  me ! "  he  murmured 
again  and  again,  and  took  her  hand  in  his  and  kissed  it. 

"  But  are  you — are  you  really  going  back — back 
over  the  seas  ?  "  she  sobbed. 

"  Yes.  I  can't  help  it,  mother !  No  one  knows  how 
miserable  I  have  been  over  here.  Forgive  me — for- 
give me — but  I  can't  stay!  I  can't  indeed!  But — 
but  you  shall  come  out  too,  and  the  others ;  and  your 
life  will  be  happier  than  it  has  been  for  years,  once 
you  are  used  to  it." 

Mrs.  Edmonstone  shook  her  head. 

"  No ;  it  is  impossible,"  she  said  with  sudden  deci- 
sion. 

351 


At  Large 


"  How  so  ?  Both  Fanny  and  Maurice,  once  when  I 
sounded  them — " 

"  Fanny  will  never  go,  and  I  cannot  leave  her." 

"Why?  Mother  dear,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  mean  that  your  sister  is  going  to  be  married." 

Married!  The  mere  word  ought  not  to  have  cut 
him  to  the  heart ;  yet,  in  the  state  that  he  was  in  then, 
it  did.    He  rose  uncertainly  to  his  feet. 

"  You  take  my  breath  away,  mother !  I  know  of 
nothing.    Whom  is  it  to  ?  " 

"  Can  you  ask  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  guess." 

"  Then  it  is  to  your  friend,  Mr. — no.  Jack — ^Jack 
Flint." 

"God  bless  old  Jack!" 

That  was  what  Dick  said  upon  the  instant.  Then 
he  stood  silent.  And  then — Dick  sank  into  a  chair, 
and  laid  his  face  upon  his  hands. 

"  I  can  go  out  alone,"  he  whispered.  "  And — and 
I  wish  them  joy ;  from  my  heart  I  do !  I  will  go  and 
tell  them  so." 


352 


XXXIII 

HOW    DICK    SAID    GOOD-BYE 

The  month  was  October;  the  day  Dick's  last  in 
England.  Both  the  day  and  the  month  were  far  spent : 
in  an  hour  or  two  it  would  be  dark,  in  a  week  or  so 
it  would  be  November.  This  time  to-morrow  the 
R.M.S.  Rome,  with  Dick  on  board,  would  be  just 
clear  of  the  Thames ;  this  time  next  month  she  would 
be  ploughing  through  the  Indian  Ocean,  with  nothing 
but  Australia  to  stop  her. 

"  Last  days,"  as  a  rule,  are  made  bearable  by  that 
blessed  atmosphere  of  excitement  which  accompanies 
them,  and  is  deleterious  to  open  sentiment.  That  ex- 
citement, however,  is  less  due  to  the  mere  fact  of  im- 
pending departure  than  to  the  providential  provision 
of  things  to  be  done  and  seen  to  at  the  last  moment. 
An  uncomfortable  "  rush  "  is  the  best  of  pain-killers 
when  it  comes  to  long  farewells.  The  work,  more- 
over, should  be  for  all  hands,  and  last  to  the  very  end ; 
then  there  is  no  time  for  lamentation — no  time  until 
the  boxes  are  out  of  the  hall  and  the  cab  has  turned 
the  corner,  and  the  empty,  untidy  room  has  to  be  set 
to  rights.    Then,  if  you  Hke,  is  the  time  for  tears. 

Now  Dick  had  made  a  great  mistake.  He  had 
booked  his  passage  too  far  in  advance.  For  six  weeks 
he  had  nothing  to  think  of  but  his  voyage ;  nothing  to 

353 


At  Large 


do  but  get  ready.  Everything  was  prearranged ;  noth- 
ing, in  this  exceptional  case,  was  left  to  the  last,  the 
very  luggage  being  sent  to  the  boat  before  the  day  of 
sailing.  If  Dick  had  deliberately  set  himself  to  deepen 
the  gloom  that  shadowed  his  departure,  he  could  not 
have  contrived  things  better.  Maurice,  for  instance, 
with  great  difficulty  obtained  a  holiday  from  the  bank 
because  it  was  Dick's  last  day.  He  might  just  as  well 
have  stopped  in  the  City.  There  was  nothing  for  him 
to  do.    The  day  wore  on  in  dismal  idleness. 

About  three  in  the  afternoon  Dick  left  the  house. 
He  was  seen  by  the  others  from  the  front  windows. 
The  sight  of  him  going  out  without  a  look  or  a  word 
on  his  last  day  cut  them  to  the  heart,  though  Dick  had 
been  everything  that  was  kind,  and  thoughtful,  and 
affectionate  since  that  evening  after  his  return  from 
Yorkshire.  Besides,  the  little  family  was  going  to  be 
broken  up  completely  before  long:  Fanny  was  to  be 
married  in  the  spring.    No  wonder  they  were  sad. 

Dick  turned  to  the  right,  walked  towards  the  river, 
turned  to  the  right  again,  and  so  along  the  London 
road  towards  the  village. 

"  It  is  the  right  thing,"  he  kept  assuring  himself, 
and  with  such  frequency  that  one  might  have  supposed 
it  was  the  wrong  thing ;  "  it  is  the  right  thing,  after  all, 
to  go  and  say  good-bye.  I  should  have  done  it  before, 
and  got  it  over.  I  was  a  fool  to  think  of  shirking  it 
altogether ;  that  would  have  been  behaving  Hke  a  boor. 
Well,  I'll  just  go  in  naturally,  say  good-bye  .  all 
round,  stop  a  few  minutes,  and  then  hurry  back  home. 
A  month  ago   I  couldn't  have  trusted  myself,  but 

now " 

354 


How  Dick  Said  Good-bye 

It  was  a  joyless  smile  that  ended  the  unspoken  sen- 
tence. The  last  month  had  certainly  strengthened  his 
self-control ;  it  had  also  hardened  and  lined  his  face 
in  a  way  that  did  not  improve  his  good  looks.  Yes, 
he  was  pretty  safe  in  trusting  himself  now. 

At  the  corner  opposite  the  low-lying  old  church- 
yard he  hesitated.  He  had  hesitated  at  that  corner 
once  before.  He  remembered  the  other  occasion  with 
peculiar  vividness  to-day.  Why  should  he  not  repeat 
the  performance  he  had  gone  through  then?  Why 
should  he  not  take  a  boat  and  row  up  to  Graysbrooke  ? 
An  admirable  idea !  It  harmonised  so  completely  with 
his  humour.  It  was  the  one  thing  wanting  to  complete 
the  satire  of  his  home-coming.  That  satire  had  been 
so  thoroughly  bitter  that  it  would  be  a  pity  to  deny  it 
a  finishing  touch  or  two.  Besides,  it  was  so  fitting 
in  every  way :  the  then  and  the  now  offered  a  contrast 
that  it  would  be  a  shame  not  to  make  the  most  of. 
Then,  thought  Dick,  his  foolish  hopes  had  been  as 
fresh  and  young  and  bright  as  the  June  leaves.  Look 
at  his  bare  heart  now !  look  at  the  naked  trees !  Hopes 
and  leaves  had  gone  the  same  way — was  it  the  way  of 
all  hopes  as  well  as  of  all  leaves?  His  mind,  as  well 
as  his  eye,  saw  everything  in  autumnal  tints.  Nor  did 
he  shirk  the  view.  There  is  a  stage  of  melancholy  that 
rather  encourages  the  cruel  contrasts  of  memory. 

"  I'll  row  up,"  said  Dick,  "  and  go  through  it  all 
again.  Let  it  do  its  worst,  it  won't  touch  me  now — 
therefore  nothing  will  ever  touch  me  as  long  as  I  live. 
A  good  test !  " 

He  did  row  up,  wearing  the  same  joyless  smile. 

He  stood  the  test  to  perfection. 
355 


At  Large 


He  did  not  forget  to  remember  anything.  He  gave 
sentimentality  a  princely  chance  to  play  the  mischief 
with  him.  It  was  a  rough  and  gusty  day,  but  mild  for 
the  time  of  year ;  a  day  of  neither  sunshine  nor  rain, 
but  plenty  of  wind  and  clouds;  one  of  those  bluster- 
ing fellows,  heralds  of  Winter,  that  come  and  abuse 
Autumn  for  neglecting  her  business,  and  tear  ofT  the 
last  of  the  leaves  for  her  with  unseemly  violence  and 
haste.  The  current  was  swift  and  strong,  and  many  a 
crisp  leaf  of  crimson  and  amber  and  gold  sailed  down 
its  broad  fretted  surface,  to  be  dashed  over  the  weir 
and  ripped  into  fragments  in  the  churning  froth  be- 
low, 

Dick  rowed  into  the  little  inlet  with  the  white  bridge 
across  it,  landed,  and  nodded,  in  the  spirit,  to  a  hun- 
dred spots  marked  in  his  mind  by  the  associations  of 
last  June ;  those  of  an  older  day  were  not  thought  of. 
Here  was  the  place  where  Alice's  boat  had  been  when 
he  had  found  her  reading  a  magazine — and  interrupted 
her  reading — on  the  day  after  his  return.  There  were 
the  seven  poplars,  in  whose  shadows  he  had  found 
Miles  on  the  night  of  the  ball,  when  the  miscreant 
Pound  came  inquiring  for  him.  There  was  the  win- 
dow through  which  he,  Dick,  had  leapt  after  that  final 
scene — final  in  its  results — with  Alice  in  the  empty 
ballroom.  A  full  minute's  contemplation  and  elabo- 
rate, cold-blooded  recollection  failed  to  awake  one 
pang — it  may  be  that,  to  a  certain  quality  of  pain, 
Dick's  sense  had  long  been  deadened.  Then  he  walked 
meditatively  to  the  front  of  the  house,  and  rang  the 
bell — a  thing  he  was  not  sure  that  he  had  ever  done 
before  at  this  house. 

356 


How  Dick  Said  Good-bye 

Colonel  Bristo  was  out,  but  Mrs.  Parish  was  in. 
Dick  would  see  Mrs.  Parish ;  he  would  be  as  civil  to 
his  old  enemy  as  to  the  rest  of  them ;  why  not  ? 

But  Mrs.  Parish  received  him  in  a  wondrous  man- 
ner ;  remorse  and  apology — nothing  less — were  in  the 
tones  of  her  ricketty  voice  and  the  grasp  of  her  skinny 
hand.  The  fact  was,  those  weeks  in  Yorkshire  had 
left  their  mark  upon  the  old  lady.  They  had  left  her 
older  still,  a  little  less  worldly,  a  little  more  sensible, 
and  humbler  by  the  possession  of  a  number  of  un- 
comfortable regrets.  She  had  heard  of  Dick's  prob- 
able r-eturn  to  Australia,  long  ago ;  but  her  information 
had  been  neither  definite  nor  authentic.  When  he 
now  told  her  that  he  was  actually  to  sail  the  next  day, 
the  old  woman  was  for  the  moment  visibly  affected. 
She  felt  that  here  there  was  a  new  and  poignant  regret 
in  store  for  her — one  that  would  probably  haunt  her 
for  the  rest  of  her  days.  At  this  rate  life  would  soon 
become  unbearable.  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  become 
suddenly  soft-hearted  in  your  old  age ! 

"  Colonel  Bristo  is  out,"  said  Mrs.  Parish,  with  a 
vague  feeling  that  made  matters  worse.  "  You  will 
wait  and  see  him,  of  course?  I  am  sure  he  will  not 
be  long ;  and  then,  you  know,  you  must  say  good-bye 
to  Alice — she  will  be  shocked  when  you  tell  her." 

"  Alice  ? "  said  Dick,  unceremoniously,  as  became 
such  a  very  old  friend  of  the  family.  "  I  hope  so — yes, 
of  course.    Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  She  is  in  the  dining-room.  She  spends  her  days. 
there." 

"  How  is  she  ?  "  Dick  asked,  with  less  indiflFerence 
in  his  manner. 

357 


At  Large 


"  Better ;  but  not  well  enough  to  stand  a  long  jour- 
ney, or  else  her  father  would  have  taken  her  to  the 
south  of  France  before  this.  Come  and  see  her.  She 
will  be  so  pleased — but  so  grieved  when  she  hears  you 
are  going  out  again.  I  am  sure  she  has  no  idea  of 
such  a  thing.    And  to-morrow,  too !  " 

Dick  followed  Mrs.  Parish  from  the  room,  wishing 
in  his  heart  that  convalescence  was  a  shorter  business, 
or  else  that  Alice  might  have  the  advantages  of  climate 
that  in  a  few  days,  and  for  evermore,  would  be  his ; 
also  speculating  as  to  whether  he  would  find  her  much 
changed,  but  wishing  and  wondering  without  the 
slightest  ruffling  emotion.  He  had  some  time  ago 
pronounced  himself  a  cure.  Therefore,  of  course,  he 
was  cured. 

There  were  two  fireplaces  in  the  dining-room,  one 
on  each  side  of  the  conservatory  door.  In  the  grate 
nearer  the  windows,  which  were  all  at  one  end,  over- 
looking lawn  and  river,  a  fire  of  wood  and  coal 
was  burning  brightly.  In  a  long  low  structure  of 
basketwork — half-sofa,  half-chair,  such  as  one  mostly 
sees  on  shipboard  and  in  verandahs — propped  up  by 
cushions  and  wrapped  in  plaids  and  woollen  clouds, 
lay  Alice,  the  convalescent.  There  was  no  sign  that 
she  had  been  reading.  She  did  not  look  as  though 
she  had  been  sleeping.  If,  then,  it  was  her  habit 
to  encourage  the  exclusive  company  of  her  own 
thoughts,  it  is  little  wonder  that  she  was  so  long  in 
parting  company  with  her  weakness. 

Dick  stood  humbly  and  gravely  by  the  door ;  a  thrill 
of  sorrow  shot  through  him  on  seeing  her  lying  there 
like  that ;  the  sensation  was  only  natural. 

358 


How  Dick  Said  Good-bye 

"  Here  is  Mr.  Richard  come  to — to — ^to  ask  you 
how  you  are,"  stammered  poor  Mrs.  Parish. 

Alice  looked  up  sharply.  Mr.  Richard  crossed  the 
room  and  held  out  his  hand  with  a  smile. 

"  I  hope  from  my  heart  that  you  are  better — that 
you  will  very  soon  be  quite  better." 

"  Thank  you.  It  was  kind  of  you  to  come.  Yes, 
indeed,  I  am  almost  well  now.  But  it  has  been  a  long 
business." 

Her  voice  was  weak,  and  the  hand  she  held  out  to 
him  seemed  so  thin  and  wasted  that  he  took  it  as  one 
would  handle  a  piece  of  dainty,  delicate  porcelain.  Her 
hair,  too,  was  cut  short  like  a  boy's.  This  was  as  much 
as  he  noticed  at  the  moment.  The  firelight  played  so 
persistently  upon  her  face  that,  for  aught  he  could  tell, 
she  might  be  either  pale  as  death  or  bathed  in  blushes. 
For  the  latter,  however,  he  was  not  in  the  least  on  the 
look-out. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  "  said  Alice.  "  Papa  will 
come  in  presently,  and  he  will  be  so  pleased  to  see  you ; 
and  you  will  take  tea  with  us.    Have  you  been  away?  " 

"  No,"  said  Dick,  feeling  awkward  because  he  had 
made  no  inquiries  personally  since  the  return  of  the 
Bristos  from  Yorkshire,  now  some  days  back.  "  But 
I  have  been  getting  ready  to  go."  He  put  down  his 
hat  on  the  red  baize  cover  of  the  big  table,  and  sat 
down  a  few  chairs  further  from  Alice  than  he  need 
have  done. 

"  What  a  capital  time  to  go  abroad,"  said  Alice, 
"just  when  everything  is  becoming  horrid  in  Eng- 
land !  We,  too,  are  waiting  to  go ;  it  is  I  that  am  the 
stumbling-block." 

359 


At  Large 


So  she  took  it  that  he  was  only  going  on  the  Conti- 
nent. Better  enUghten  her  at  once,  thought  Dick. 
Mrs.  Parish  had  disappeared  mysteriously  from  the 
room. 

"  This  time  to-morrow,"  Dick  accordingly  said,  "  I 
shall  be  on  board  the  Rome." 

The  effect  of  this  statement  upon  Alice  was  start- 
ling. 

"  What !  "  cried  she,  raising  herself  a  few  inches  in 
suddenly  aroused  interest.  "  Are  you  going  to  see 
them  off?" 

"  See  whom  off?  "    Dick  was  mystified. 

"  My  dear  good  nurse — the  first  and  the  best  of  ray 
nurses — and  her  brother  the  Sergeant." 

"  Do  you  mean  Compton  ?  " 

"  Yes.     They  sail  in  the  Rome  to-morrow." 

"  So  the  brother,"  Dick  thought  to  himself,  "  is 
taking  the  sister  back  to  her  own  people,  to  be  wel- 
comed and  forgiven,  and  to  lead  a  better  kind  of 
life.  Poor  thing !  poor  thing !  Perhaps  her  husband's 
death  was  the  best  thing  that  could  have  befallen  her. 
She  will  be  able  to  start  afresh.     She  is  a  widow  now." 

Aloud,  he  only  said ;  "  I  am  glad — very  glad  to 
hear  it." 

"  Did  you  know,"  said  AHce,  seeing  that  he  was 
thinking  more  than  he  said,  "  that  she  was  a  widow  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick. 

It  was  plain  to  him  that  Alice  did  not  know  whose 
widow  the  poor  woman  was.  She  suspected  no  sort 
of  bond  between  the  woman  who  had  nursed  her  and 
the  man  who  had  made  love  to  her.  She  did  not  know 
the  baseness  of  that  love  on  his  part.    This  was  as  it 

360 


How  Dick  Said  Good-bye 

should  be.  She  must  never  suspect ;  she  must  never, 
never  know. 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick  slowly,  "  I  knew  that." 

"  Oh !  "  cried  out  Alice.  "  How  dreadful  it  all  was ! 
How  terrible !  " 

"  Ay,"  said  Dick,  gravely ;  "  it  was  that  indeed." 

There  was  a  pause  between  them.  It  was  Alice 
who  broke  it. 

"  Dick,"  she  said  frankly — and  honest  shame  trem- 
bled through  her  utterance — "  I  want  to  ask  your  par- 
don for  something — no,  you  shall  not  stop  me!  I 
want  to  tell  you  that  I  am  sorry  for  having  said  some- 
thing— something  that  I  just  dimly  remember  saying, 
but  something  that  I  know  was  monstrous  and  inex- 
cusable. It  was  just  before — but  I  was  accountable 
enough  to  know  better.  Ah!  I  see  you  remember; 
indeed,  you  could  never  forget — please — ^please — try 
to  forgive !  " 

Dick  felt  immensely  uneasy. 

"  Say  no  more,  Alice.  I  deserved  it  all,  and  more 
besides.  I  was  fearfully  at  fault.  I  should  never  have 
approached  you  as  I  did,  my  discovery  once  made. 
I  shall  never  forgive  myself  for  all  that  has  happened. 
But  he  took  me  in — he  took  me  in,  up  there,  playing 
the  penitent  thief,  the — poor  fellow !  " 

His  voice  dropped,  his  tone  changed :  many  things 
came  back  to  him  in  a  rush. 

"  Papa  has  told  me  the  whole  history  of  the  rela- 
tions between  you,"  Alice  said  quietly,  "  and  we  think 
you  behaved  nobly." 

"  There  was  precious  little  nobility  in  it,"  Dick  said 
grimly.     Nor  was  there  any  mock  modesty  in  this. 

361 


At  Large 


He  knew  too  well  that  he  had  done  nothing  to  be 
proud  of. 

There  was  another  pause.     Dick  broke  this  one. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  "  if  I  refer  to  anything  very 
painful,  but  I  am  going  away  to-morrow,  and — there 
was  something  else  you  said,  just  after  you  adminis- 
tered that  just  rebuke  to  me.  You  said  you  would 
tell  us  what  Miles  had  said  to  you.  Now  I  do  not 
mean  it  as  presumption,  but  we  are  old  friends  " — she 
winced — "  and  I  have  rather  suspected  that  he  made 
some  confession  to  you  which  he  never  made  to  any- 
one else.     There  was  a  lot  of  gold " 

Alice  interrupted  him  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  would  rather  not  tell  you  what  he  said ;  it  was 
nothing  to  do  with  anything  of  that  kind." 

Dick's  question  had  not  been  unpremeditated.  He 
had  had  his  own  conviction  as  to  the  "  confession  " 
Alice  had  listened  to ;  he  only  wanted  that  conviction 
confirmed.  Now,  by  her  hesitation  and  her  refusal 
to  answer,  it  was  confirmed.  Miles  had  proposed  mar- 
riage on  the  way  from  Melmerbridge  Church,  and 
been  accepted!  Well,  it  was  a  satisfaction  to  have 
that  put  beyond  doubt.  He  had  put  his  question  in 
rather  an  underhand  way,  but  how  was  he  to  do  other- 
wise ?  He  had  got  his  answer ;  the  end  justified  the 
means. 

"  Pray  don't  say  another  word,"  said  Dick  impul- 
sively. "  Forgfive  me  for  prying.  Perhaps  I  can 
guess  what  he  said." 

Alice  darted  at  him  a  swift  glance,  and  saw  his 
meaning  in  a  flash. 

"  Do  not  get  up,"  said  she  quietly,  for  Dick  was 
362 


How  Dick  Said  Good-bye 

rising  to  go.  "  Since  it  is  possible  that  you  may  guess 
-wrong,  I  will  tell  you  all.  I  insist  in  telling  you  all ! 
Here,  then,  are  the  facts:  Mr.  Miles  scarcely  spoke 
a  word  on  the  way  from  church,  until  suddenly,  when 
we  were  almost  in  sight  of  home,  he — he  caught  hold 
of  my  hand." 

Dick  knew  that  already.  He  was  also  quite  sure 
that  he  knew  what  was  coming.  It  was  no  use  Alice 
going  on ;  he  could  see  that  she  was  nervous  and  un- 
comfortable over  it;  he  reproached  himself  furiously 
for  making  her  so ;  he  made  a  genuine  effort  to  prevail 
upon  her  to  say  no  more.  In  vain ;  for  now  AUce  was 
determined.  Seeing  that  it  was  so,  he  got  up  from 
his  chair  and  walked  over  to  the  windows,  and  watched 
the  brown  leaves  being  whisked  about  the  lawn  and 
the  sky  overhead  turning  a  deeper  grey. 

Alice  continued  in  a  voice  that  was  firm  for  all  its 
faintness : 

"  I  suppose  I  looked  surprised,  and  taken  aback,  and 
indignant,  but  he  held  my  hand  as  if  his  was  a  vice, 
and  still  we  walked  on.  Then  I  looked  at  him,  and  he 
was  pale.  Then  he  stared  down  upon  me,  closely  and 
long,  as  if  he  meant  to  read  my  soul,  and  a  great  shud- 
der seemed  to  pass  through  him.  He  almost  flung 
my  hand  away  from  him,  and  faced  me  in  the  road. 
We  were  then  on  that  little  bridge  between  two  hills, 
not  far  from  the  shooting-box :  you  will  remember  it. 
'  Miss  Alice,'  he  said,  *  I  am  a  villain !  a  scoundrel !  an 
impostor.  I  have  never  been  fit  to  speak  to  you,  and 
I  have  dared  to  take  your  hand.  But  I  find  I  am  a 
shade  less  black  than  I  thought  myself  a  minute  ago ; 
for  what  I  meant  to  say  to  you  I  would  not  say  now  to 

363 


At  Large 


save  my  soul,  if  I  had  one !  Good-bye ;  you  will  see 
no  more  of  me.  Whatever  you  may  one  day  hear  of 
me — and  you  must  believe  it  all,  for  it  is  every  word 
true — remember  this :  that,  bad  as  I  still  am,  I  am  less 
bad  than  I  was  before  I  knew  you,  and  I  have  found 
it  out  this  instant.  Go,  leave  me,  run  home ;  you  shall 
never  see  me  again.  I  shall  go  at  once  from  this  place, 
and  I  leave  England  in  two  days.  Do  you  hear  ?  Go, 
leave  me  alone — go !  And  God  go  with  you ! '  His 
voice  was  breaking,  his  wild  looks  frightened  me,  but 
I  answered  him.  I  had  my  suspicions,  as  I  told  him, 
but  I  did  not  tell  him  that  you  put  them  into  my  head. 
What  I  did  say  to  him  was  this :  *  Whatever  you  have 
done,  whatever  you  may  do,  you  did  one  thing  once 
that  can  never,  never  grow  less  in  my  eyes ! '  I  meant 
his  saving  of  my  father's  life ;  and  with  that  I  ran  away 
from  him  and  never  looked  round.  That  is  every 
word  that  passed.  I  can  never  forget  them.  As  to 
what  happened  afterwards,  you  know  more  than  I." 

AHce's  own  voice  shook ;  it  was  hollow,  and  hoarse, 
and  scarcely  audible  at  the  end.  As  for  Dick,  he  stood 
looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  whirling  leaves,  with 
not  a  word  to  say,  until  an  involuntary  murmur  es- 
caped him. 

"Poor  Miles!" 

The  girl's  answer  was  a  low  sob. 

Then  here  was  the  truth  at  last.  The  innocence 
and  purity  of  the  young  English  girl  had  awed  and 
appalled  that  bold,  desperate,  unscrupulous  man  at 
the  last  moment.  On  the  brink  of  the  worst  of  all  his 
crimes  his  nerve  had  failed  him,  or,  to  do  him  better 
justice,  his  heart  had  smitten  him.     Yes,  it  must  hav^ 

364 


How  Dick  Said  Good-bye 

been  this,  for  the  poor  fellow  loved  her  well.  His 
last  thought  was  of  her,  his  last,  dying  effort  was  for 
her,  his  life's  blood  ran  out  of  him  in  her  service ! 

But  Alice !  Had  she  not  loved  him  when  he  spoke  ? 
Had  she  not  given  her  heart  to  him  in  the  beginning? 
Had  she  not  tacitly  admitted  as  much  in  this  very 
room?  Then  her  heart  must  be  his  still;  her  heart 
must  be  his  for  ever — dead  or  living,  false  or  true,  vil- 
lain or  hero.  Poor  Alice !  What  a  terrible  thing  for 
a  girl  to  have  so  misplaced  her  love.  Dick  felt  his 
heart  bleeding  for  her,  but  what  could  he  do?  He 
could  do  nothing  but  go  back  to  Australia,  and  pray 
that  some  day  she  might  get  over  it  and  be  consoled. 
Now  that  he  thought  of  it,  he  had  not  told  her  about 
Australia.  He  had  tried  twice,  and  each  time  been  in- 
terrupted.    It  must  be  done  now. 

"  By-the-bye,"  he  began  (it  was  after  a  long  silence, 
and  the  room  was  filled  with  dusk,  and  the  fire  burning 
low),  "  I  didn't  tell  you,  after  all,  how  it  is  that  I  shall 
be  aboard  the  Rome  this  time  to-morrow.  It  is  not 
to  see  oflf  Compton  and  his  sister,  because  until  you 
told  me  I  didn't  know  they  were  going.  Can't  you 
guess  the  reason  ?  " 

"No!" 

What  could  be  the  meaning  of  that  quick  gasp  from 
the  other  side  of  the  room  that  preceded  the  faint 
monosyllable  ? 

"  I  will  tell  you :  it  is  because  I  sail  for  Australia 
myself  to-morrow !     I  am  going  back  to  the  bush." 

There  was  a  slight  shiver  of  the  basketwork  chair. 
Then  all  was  still;  and  Dick  watched  evening  gather 
over  the  flat  Ham  fields  across  the  river.     The  next 


At  Large 


tones  from  near  the  fireplace  had  a  steely  ring  about 
them. 

"  Why  are  you  going  back  ?  " 

"  Because  I  have  found  England  intolerable." 

"  I  thought  you  were  going  to  get  on  so  well  in 
England?" 

"  So  did  I." 

Another  silence.  Dick  drummed  idly  upon  the 
pane  with  his  fingers.  There  was  certainly  a  degree 
of  regret  in  Alice's  tone — enough  to  afford  him  a 
vague  sense  of  gratitude  to  her. 

"  Is  it  not  a  terrible  disappointment  to  your  fam- 
ily?" 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Dick  uneasily. 

"  And  can  you  lightly  grieve  those  who  love  you  ?  " 

She  spoke  as  earnestly  as  though  she  belonged  to 
that  number  herself ;  but,  thought  Dick,  that  must  be 
from  the  force  of  her  woman's  sympathy  for  women. 
There  was  a  slight  catch  in  her  voice,  doubtless  from 
the  same  cause.  Could  it  be  from  any  other  cause? 
Dick  trembled  in  the  dusk  by  the  window  at  the 
thought.  No ;  it  could  not  be.  No ;  he  did  not  wish 
it.  He  would  not  have  her  relent  now.  It  was  too 
late.  He  had  set  his  mind  on  going ;  his  passage  was 
booked,  his  luggage  was  on  board ;  nothing  could  un- 
settle him  now.  Was  it  not  admitted  in  the  beginning 
that  he  was  an  obstinate  fellow?  Besides,  hope  had 
been  out  of  the  range  of  his  vision  these  many  weeks. 
When  a  faint  spark  of  hope  burned  on  the  horizon,  was 
it  natural  that  he  should  detect  it  at  once?  Yet  her 
tones  made  him  tremble. 

As  for  Alice,  her  heart  was  beating  with  wild,  sick- 
366 


How  Dick  Said  Good-bye 

ening  thuds.  She  felt  that  she  was  receiving  her  just 
deserts.  Dick  was  as  cold  to  her  now  as  she  had  been 
cold  to  Dick  before ;  only  far  colder,  for  she  had  but 
been  trying  him.  Ah !  but  Nemesis  was  cruel  in  her 
justice !  And  she,  Alice,  so  faint,  so  weary,  so  heart- 
sick, so  loveless,  so  full  of  remorse,  so  ready  to  love ! 
And  this  the  last  chance  of  all ! 

"  Is  there  nothing  that  could  stop  you  from  going 
now?" 

"Nothing." 

"Nothing  at  all?" 

"  No  consideration  upon  earth !  " 

"  Ah,  you  have  taken  your  passage !  " 

"That's  not  it!" 

He  was  indignant.     A  paltry  seventy  guineas ! 

"  Then  what  is  ?  It  must  be  that  you've  made  up 
your  mind,  and  would  not  unmake  it — no  matter  who 
asked  you." 

The  slightest  stress  imaginable  was  laid  upon  the 
relative. 

Dick  was  leaning  against  the  window-ledge  for  sup- 
port. His  brain  was  whirling.  He  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve his  ears.  There  was  a  tearful  tenderness  in  her 
voice  which  he  could  not,  which  he  dared  not  under- 
stand. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked  hoarsely. 

"  I  mean  that— that  you— that  I " 

The  words  ended  in  inarticulate  sobs. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  ask  me  to  stay  in  Eng- 
land?" 

Dick  put  this  question  in  a  voice  that  was  absolutely 
stern,  though  it  quivered  with  suppressed  agitation. 

367 


At  Large 


There  was  no  answer:  sobs  were  no  answer.  He 
crossed  the  room  unsteadily,  fell  on  his  knees  at  her 
side,  and  took  both  her  hands  in  his.  Then  he  repeat- 
ed the  same  question — in  the  same  words,  in  the  same 
tones. 

The  answer  came  in  a  trembling  whisper,  with  a 
fresh  torrent  of  tears : 

"What  if  I  did?" 

"  The  Rome  might  sail  without  me." 

A  tearful  incredulous  smile  from  Alice. 

"  Do  you  tell  me  to  stay  ?  I  stay  or  go  at  your  bid- 
ding. Darling!  you  know  what  that  means  to  us 
two?" 

No  answer. 

"  Speak !  Speak,  Alice,  for  I  cannot  bear  this ! 
The  Rome  would  sail  without  me ! " 

•         •••..•* 

Alice  did  speak.    The  Rome  did  sail  without  him. 


368 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


PR6015.       H784A 


REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAClLirj, 


S    000  859  265     1 


::,!! 


■i!ii|!i|!!(|] 


